Wioxann  Stentis  Hatmw} 

ittemnrinl 


s^antn  Barbara  Normal  ^rljool 
...1913... 


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THE  MEASURE  OF  THE  HOURS 


The  Measure  of  the 
Hours 

BY 

MAURICE    MAETERLINCK 

Translated  by 
Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 


I 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,    MEAD   AND    COMPANY 
1907 


Copyright,    1905, 
By  Fox,  Duffield  and  Company 

Copyright,    1907, 

By  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

Copyright,  1904,  1905, 

By    Maurice    Maeterlinck 

Copyright,    1905,    1906,     1907, 

By  Harper  and  Brothers 


Copyright,    1907, 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


Published,  April,  iqcr; 


STATE  TE 
SANTA   BAf- 


Note 

Of  the  essays  forming  this  volume,  some 
two  or  three  are  now  published,  in  English, 
for  the  first  time.  The  remainder  have 
appeared,  at  different  times,  in  newspapers 
and  magazines,  including  the  Fortnightly 
Review,  Harper's  Magazine,  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  the  Critic,  the  International 
Quarterly,  the  Daily  Mail,  and  others. 
The  thanks  of  the  author  and  translator 
are  due  to  the  proprietors  and  editors  of 
these  periodicals  for  their  leave  to  republish 
in  the  present  volume. 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Measure  of  the  Hours  9 

Immortality  25 

The  Gods  of  War  65 

Our   Social  Duty  83 

Our  Anxious   Morality  107 

Rome  155 

The  Psychology  of  Accident  177 

In   Praise  of  the  Fist  197 

The  Forgiveness  of  Injuries  211 

Concerning   *«  King  Lear  "  227 

The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers  245 

Perfumes  357 


THE  MEASURE  OF  THE  HOURS 


THE  MEASURE  OF  THE 
HOURS 


SUMMER  is  the  season  of  happiness. 
When,  among  the  trees,  in  the  moun- 
tains or  by  the  sea,  the  fair  hours  of  the 
year,  the  hours  for  which  we  have  waited 
and  hoped  since  the  depths  of  winter,  the 
hours  which  at  last  open  to  us  the  golden 
gates  of  leisure,  return  for  our  delight,  let 
us  learn  to  enjoy  them  fully,  continuously, 
voluptuously.  Let  us  have  for  these  privi- 
leged hours  a  nobler  measure  than  that  into 
which  we  pour  the  ordinary  hours.  Let  us 
gather  their  dazzling  minutes  in  unaccus- 
tomed urns,  glorious,  transparent  and  made 
of  the  very  light  which  they  are  to  contain, 


ii 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

even  as  we  serve  a  costly  wine  not  in  the 
common  glass  of  the  daily  table,  but  in  the 
purest  cup  of  crystal  and  silver  locked  in  the 
sideboard  of  the  banqueting-room. 


II 

The  measuring  of  time !  We  are  so  con- 
structed that  we  cannot  be  made  conscious 
of  time  and  impressed  with  its  joys  or  sor- 
rows unless  we  count  and  weigh  it,  like  an 
invisible  currency.  It  takes  shape,  acquires 
its  substance  and  its  value  only  in  compli- 
cated forms  of  apparatus  which  we  have 
contrived  in  order  to  render  it  apparent; 
and,  having  no  existence  in  itself,  it  bor- 
rows the  taste,  the  perfume  and  the  shape 
of  the  instrument  that  rules  it.  For  this 
reason,  the  minutes  ticked  off  by  our  little 
watches  wear  a  different  aspect  from  those 
prolonged  by  the  great  hand  of  the  belfry 
or  cathedral-clock.     It  behoves  us,  there- 

12 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

fore,  not  to  be  indifferent  to  the  birth  of  the 
hours.  Even  as  we  have  glasses  whose 
shape,  shade  and  brilliancy  vary  according 
as  they  are  called  upon  to  carry  to  our  lips 
light  claret  or  rich  burgundy,  cool  hock  or 
heavy  port,  or  the  gladness  of  champagne, 
why  should  not  our  minutes  be  numbered  in 
ways  appropriate  to  their  melancholy,  their 
inertness  or  their  joy?  It  is  fitting,  for  in- 
stance, that  our  working  months  and  our 
winter  days,  days  of  bustle,  business,  hurry 
and  restlessness,  should  be  strictly,  methodi- 
cally, harshly  divided  and  registered  by  the 
metal  wheels  and  hands  and  the  enamelled 
faces  of  our  chimney-clocks,  our  electric  or 
pneumatic  dial-plates  or  our  small  pocket- 
watches.  Here,  majestic  time,  the  master 
of  gods  and  men,  the  immense  human  form 
of  eternity,  is  no  more  than  a  stubborn  in- 
sect gnawing  mechanically  at  a  life  devoid 
of  horizon,  sky  or  rest.  At  most,  at  the 
warning  moment  that  precedes  the  stroke, 

13 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

during  the  too-short  evening  snatched, 
under  the  lamp,  from  the  cares  of  hunger 
or  vanity,  will  the  great  copper  pendulum 
of  the  Dutch  or  Norman  clock  be  allowed 
to  make  slower  and  more  impressive  the 
seconds  that  go  before  the  steps  of  grave 
night  advancing. 

Ill 

On  the  other  hand,  for  our  hours  no  longer 
indifferent,  but  really  sombre,  for  our 
hours  of  discouragement,  of  self-denial,  of 
sickness  and  pain,  for  the  dead  minutes  of 
our  life,  let  us  regret  the  time-honoured, 
dejected  and  silent  hour-glass  of  our  ances- 
tors. It  is  to-day  no  more  than  an  inactive 
symbol  on  our  tombstones  or  the  funeral 
hangings  of  our  churches,  except  where,  piti- 
fully fallen,  it  may  still  be  found  presiding, 
in  some  country  kitchen,  over  the  fastidious 
cooking  of  our  boiled  eggs.  It  no  longer 
continues  as  an  instrument  of  time,  though 

14 


The   Measure  of  the   Hours 

it  still  figures,  in  company  with  the  scythe, 
on  its  antiquated  blazon.  And  yet  it  had 
its  merits  and  its  reasons  for  existence.  In 
the  dull,  sad  days  of  human  thought,  in  the 
•  cloisters  built  around  the  abode  of  the  dead, 
in  the  convents  that  opened  their  doors  and 
windows  only  to  the  wavering  glimmers  of 
another  world,  more  awful  than  our  own,, 
the  sand-glass  was,  for  the  hours  stripped 
of  their  joys,  their  smiles,  their  happy  sur- 
prises and  their  ornaments,  a  measure 
whose  place  no  other  could  have  filled  as 
gracefully.  It  did  not  state  time  with  pre- 
cision; it  stifled  it  in  powdery  particles.  It 
was  made  for  counting  one  by  one  the  sands 
of  prayer  and  waiting,  of  terror  and  weari- 
ness. The  minutes  sped  by  in  dust,  isolated 
from  the  circumambient  life  of  the  sky,  the 
garden  and  space,  secluded  in  their  glass 
phial  even  as  the  monk  was  secluded  in  his 
cell,  marking,  naming  no  hour,  burying 
them  all  in  the  funeral  sand,  while  the  un- 

15 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

occupied  thoughts  that  watched  over  their 
dumb  and  incessant  fall  passed  away  with 
them  to  be  added  to  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 


IV 

Between  the  glorious  banks  of  flaming 
summer,  it  seems  best  to  enjoy  the  glowing 
succession  of  the  hours  in  the  order  in  which 
they  are  marked  by  the  orb  itself  that 
showers  them  upon  our  leisure.  In  these 
wider,  more  open,  more  lingering  days,  I 
believe  and  trust  only  in  the  great  divisions 
of  light  which  the  sun  names  to  me  with  the 
warm  shadow  of  its  rays  on  the  marble  dial 
which  there,  in  the  garden,  beside  the  lake, 
reflects  and  records  in  silence,  as  though  it 
were  doing  an  insignificant  thing,  the  course 
of  our  worlds  through  planetary  space.  By 
this  immediate,  this  only  authentic  tran- 
scription of  the  wishes  of  time  which 
directs  the  stars,   our  poor  human  hour, 

16 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

which  rules  our  meals  and  all  the  little 
actions  of  our  little  lives,  acquires  a  nobility, 
a  direct  and  urgent  fragrance  of  infinity 
that  render  vaster  and  more  health-giving 
the  dazzling,  dewy  mornings  and  almost 
motionless  afternoons  of  the  fair  and 
immaculate  summer. 

Unfortunately,  the  sun-dial,  which  alone 
knew  how  to  follow  with  dignity  the  grave 
and  luminous  march  of  the  spotless  hours, 
is  becoming  rare  and  is  disappearing  from 
our  gardens.  It  is  hardly  anywhere  to  be 
found  save  in  the  main  court,  on  the  stone 
terraces,  in  the  mall,  among  the  quincunxes 
of  some  old  town,  some  old  castle,  some 
ancient  palace,  where  its  gilt  figures,  its  face 
and  style  are  wearing  away  under  the  hand 
of  the  very  god  whose  worship  they  should 
perpetuate.  Nevertheless,  Provence  and 
some  of  the  Italian  market-towns  have  re- 
mained faithful  to  the  celestial  clock.  Here 
we  often  see  displayed,  on  the  sunny  gable 

17 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

of  the  brightest  of  old,  dilapidated  country- 
houses,  the  frescoed  circle  over  which  the 
sunbeams  carefully  measure  their  fairy 
progress.  And  mottoes,  profound  or  art- 
less, but  always  significant,  because  of  the 
place  which  they  fill  and  the  part  which  they 
play  in  a  vast  life,  strive  to  blend  the  human 
soul  with  incomprehensible  phenomena. 
"L'heure  de  la  justice  ne  sonne  pas  aux 
cadrans  de  ce  monde:  the  hour  of  justice 
does  not  strike  on  the  dials  of  this  world," 
says  the  inscription  on  the  sun-dial  of  the 
church  at  Tourette-sur-Loup,  that  extraor- 
dinary, that  almost  African  little  village, 
near  to  where  I  live,  which,  amid  the 
crumbling  rocks  and  clambering  aloes  and 
fig-trees,  resembles  a  miniature  Toledo  re- 
duced to  a  skeleton  by  the  sun.  Another 
radiant  clock-face  proudly  proclaims  "A 
htmhie  motus"  as  its  motto:  "I  am  moved 
by  the  light."  "Amydst  ye  flovvres,  I  tell 
ye  hours,"  says  an  old  marble  dial  in  an  old 

18 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

garden.  But  one  of  the  prettiest  legends, 
surely,  is  that  which  Hazlitt  discovered  one 
day  near  Venice :  "Horas  non  numero  nisi 
serenas." 

"  'I  count  only  the  hours  that  are  serene,'  " 
he  adds.  "What  a  bland  and  care-dispelling 
feeling !  How  the  shadows  seem  to  fade 
on  the  dial-plate  as  the  sky  lours  and  time 
presents  only  a  blank,  unless  as  its  progress 
is  marked  by  what  is  joyous  and  all  that  is 
not  happy  descends  into  oblivion.  What  a 
fine  lesson  is  conveyed  to  the  mind  to  take 
no  note  of  time  but  by  its  benefits,  to  watch 
only  for  the  smiles  and  neglect  the  frowns 
of  fate,  to  compose  our  lives  of  bright  and 
gentle  moments,  turning  always  to  the  sunny 
side  of  things  and  letting  the  rest  slip  from 
our  imaginations,  unheeded  or  forgotten!" 


19 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 


The  clock,  the  hour-glass,  the  vanished 
clepsydra  give  abstract  hours,  without  face 
or  form.  They  are  the  instruments  of  the 
anaemic  time  of  our  indoor  rooms,  of  time 
enslaved  and  captive;  but  the  sun-dial 
reveals  to  us  the  real,  throbbing  shadow  of 
the  wing  of  the  great  god  that  hovers  in  the 
sky.  Around  the  marble  disk  which  adorns 
the  terrace  or  the  crossing  of  two  wide  ave- 
nues and  which  harmonises  so  well  with  the 
majestic  staircases  and  spreading  balus- 
trades or  with  the  green  walls  of  the  thick 
quickset  hedges,  we  enjoy  the  fleeting  but 
undeniable  presence  of  the  beamy  hours. 
He  who  has  learnt  to  descry  them  in  space 
v/ill  see  them  turn  by  turn  touching  earth 
and  leaning  over  the  mysterious  altar  to 
offer  a  sacrifice  to  the  god  whom  man  hon- 
ours, but  cannot  know.  He  will  see  them 
advancing   in    diverse   and   changing    gar- 

20 


The   Measure  of  the  Hours 

ments,  crowned  with  fruit,  flowers  or  dew : 
first,  the  as  yet  diaphanous  and  hardly  visi- 
ble hours  of  the  dawn;  next,  their  sisters  of 
noon,  ardent,  cruel,  resplendent,  almost 
implacable;  and,  finally,  the  last  hours  of 
twilight,  slow  and  sumptuous,  delayed  in 
their  progress  towards  approaching  night 
by  the  purpling  shadow  of  the  trees. 

VI 

The  sun-dial  alone  is  worthy  to  measure 
the  splendour  of  the  months  of  green  and 
gold.  Like  profound  happiness,  it  speaks  | 
jio  word.  Time  marches  over  it  in  silence, 
as  it  passes  in  silence  over  the  spheres  of 
space;  but  the  church  of  the  neighbouring 
village  lends  it  at  moments  its  bronze  voice; 
and  nothing  is  so  harmonious  as  the  sound 
of  the  bell  that  strikes  a  chord  with  the 
dumb  gesture  of  its  shadow  marking  noon 
amid  the  sea  of  blue.    The  sun-dial  gives  a 

21 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

centre  and  successive  names  to  scattered  and 
nameless  joys.  All  the  poetry,  all  the 
delights  of  the  country-side,  all  the  mys- 
teries of  the  firmament,  all  the  confused 
thoughts  of  the  tall  trees  that  guard  like  a 
sacred  treasure  the  coolness  which  night  has 
entrusted  to  their  care,  all  the  blissful  in- 
tensity of  the  corn-fields,  plains  and  hills 
abandoned  without  defence  to  the  devour- 
ing magnificence  of  the  sunlight,  all  the 
indolence  of  the  brook  flowing  between  its 
gentle  banks,  the  drowsiness  of  the  pond 
covered  with  drops  of  sweat  formed  by  the 
duck-weed,  the  satisfaction  of  the  house 
that  opens,  in  its  white  front,  windows 
greedy  to  draw  in  the  horizon,  the  scent  of 
the  flowers  hastening  to  finish  a  day  of 
scorching  beauty,  the  birds  singing  in  the 
order  of  the  hours  to  weave  garlands  of 
gladness  for  them  in  the  sky :  all  these,  to- 
gether with  thousands  of  things  and  thou- 
sands of  lives  that  escape  our  sight,  meet 

22 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

and  take  stock  of  their  continuance  around 
this  mirror  of  time  on  which  the  sun,  which 
is  but  one  of  the  wheels  of  the  huge  ma- 
chine that  vainly  subdivides  eternity,  marks 
with  a  kindly  ray  the  daily  journey  which 
the  earth,  with  all  that  it  carries,  performs 
on  the  road  of  the  stars. 


23 


IMMORTALITY 


IMMORTALITY 


I 


IN  the  new  era  whereupon  we  are  enter- 
ing, and  wherein  the  religions  no  longer 
reply  to  the  great  questions  of  mankind, 
one  of  the  problems  on  which  we  cross- 
examine  ourselves  most  anxiously  is  that  of 
the  life  beyond  the  tomb.  Do  all  things 
end  at  death?  Is  there  an  imaginable 
after-life  ?  Whither  do  we  go  and  what  be- 
comes of  us  ?  What  awaits  us  on  the  other 
side  of  the  frail  illusion  which  we  call 
existence  ?  At  the  moment  when  our  heart 
stops  beating,  does  matter  triumph,  or 
mind;  does  eternal  light  begin,  or  endless 
darkness? 

Like  all  that  exists,  we  are  imperishable. 
We  cannot  conceive  that  anything  should 

27 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

be  lost  in  the  universe.  By  the  side  of  in- 
finity, it  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  state  of 
nothingness  into  which  an  atom  of  matter 
can  fall  and  be  annihilated.  All  that  is  will 
be  eternally;  all  is;  and  there  is  nothing 
that  is  not.  Otherwise,  we  should  be  driven 
to  believe  that  our  brain  has  nothing  in 
common  with  the  universe  which  it  strives 
to  conceive.  We  should  even  have  to  say 
that  it  works  in  the  reverse  direction  to  the 
universe,  which  is  hardly  probable,  since  it 
is,  after  all,  perhaps  but  a  sort  of  reflection 
of  the  universe. 

That  which  appears  to  perish  or,  at  least, 
to  disappear  and  follow  upon  itself  is  the 
form  and  fashion  under  which  we  see  im- 
perishable matter ;  but  we  do  not  know  with 
what  realities  these  appearances  correspond. 
They  are  the  texture  of  the  bandage  which 
is  laid  upon  our  eyes  and  which  gives  them, 
under  the  pressure  that  blinds  them, 
all  the  images  of  our  life.     Remove  that 

28 


Immortality 

bandage :  what  remains  ?  Do  we  enter  into 
the  reality  that  undoubtedly  exists  beyond? 
Or  do  the  appearances  themselves  cease  to 
exist  for  us? 

II 

That  the  state  of  nothingness  is  impossi- 
ble; that,  after  our  death,  all  subsists  in  it- 
self and  nothing  perishes:  these  are  things 
that  hardly  interest  us.  The  only  point  that 
touches  us,  in  this  eternal  persistence,  is  the 
fate  of  that  small  part  of  our  life  which 
used  to  perceive  phenomena  during  our 
existence.  We  call  it  our  consciousness  or 
our  ego.  This  ego,  as  we  conceive  it  when 
we  reflect  upon  the  consequences  of  its  de- 
struction, jthis  ego  is  neither  our  mind  nor 
our  body,  since  we  recognise  that  both  are 
waves  that  flow  away  and  are  renewed  in- 
cessantly.! Is  it  an  immovable  point  which 
could  not  be  form  or  substance,  for  these 
are  always  in  evolution,  nor  life,  which  is 

29 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

the  cause  or  effect  of  form  and  substance? 
In  truth,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  appre- 
hend or  define  it,  to  tell  where  it  dwells. 
When  we  try  to  go  back  to  its  last  source, 
we  find  hardly  more  than  a  succession  of 
memories,  a  series  of  ideas,  confused,  for 
that  matter,  and  unsettled,  attached  to  the 
one  instinct  of  living:  a  series  of  habits  of 
our  sensibility  and  of  conscious  or  uncon- 
scious reactions  against  the  surrounding 
phenomena.  When  all  is  said,  the  most 
steadfast  point  of  that  nebula  is  our 
memory,  which  seems,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
be  a  somewhat  external,  a  somewhat  acces- 
sory faculty  and,  in  any  case,  one  of  the 
frailest  faculties  of  our  brain,  one  of  those 
which  disappear  the  most  promptly  at  the 
least  disturbance  of  our  health. 


30 


Immortality 

III 

It  matters  not;  that  uncertain,  indis- 
cernible, fleeting  and  precarious  ego  is  so 
much  the  centre  of  our  being,  interests  us 
so  exclusively  that  every  reality  of  our  life 
disappears  before  this  phantom.  It  is  a 
matter  of  utter  indifference  to  us  that 
throughout  eternity  our  body  or  its  sub- 
stance should  know  every  joy  and  every 
glory,  undergo  the  most  splendid  and  de- 
lightful transformations,  become  flower, 
perfume,  beauty,  light,  air,  star;  it  is  like- 
wise indifferent  to  us  that  our  intellect 
should  expand  until  it  mixes  with  the  life  of 
the  worlds,  understands  and  governs  it. 
Our  instinct  is  persuaded  that  all  this  will 
not  affect  us,  will  give  us  no  pleasure,  will 
not  happen  to  ourselves,  unless  that  memory 
of  a  few  almost  always  insignificant  facts 
accompany  us  and  witness  those  unimag- 
inable joys,     I  care  not  if  the  loftiest,  the 

31 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

freest,  the  fairest  portions  of  my  mind  be 
eternally  living  and  radiant  in  the  supreme 
gladnesses:  they  are  no  longer  mine;  I  do 
not  know  them.  Death  has  cut  the  network 
of  nerves  or  memories  that  connected  them 
with  I  know  not  what  centre  wherein  lies 
the  sensitive  point  which  I  feel  to  be  all 
myself.  They  are  now  set  loose,  floating  in 
space  and  time,  and  their  fate  is  as  unknown 
to  me  as  that  of  the  farthest  stars.  Any- 
thing that  occurs  exists  for  me  only  upon 
condition  that  I  be  able  to  recall  it  within 
that  mysterious  being  which  is  I  know  not 
where  and  precisely  nowhere,  which  I  turn 
like  a  mirror  about  this  world  whose  phe- 
nomena take  shape  only  in  so  far  as  they  are 
reflected  in  it. 

IV 

Thus  our  longing  for  immortality  destroys 
itself  while  expressing  itself,  since  it  is  on 
one  of  the  accessory  and  most  transient 

32 


Immortality 

parts  of  our  whole  life  that  we  base  all  the 
interest  of  our  after-life.  It  seems  to  us 
that,  if  our  existence  be  not  continued  with 
the  greater  part  of  its  drawbacks,  of  the 
pettinesses  and  blemishes  that  characterise 
it,  nothing  will  distinguish  it  from  that  of 
other  beings;  that  it  will  become  a  drop 
of  ignorance  in  the  ocean  of  the  unknown; 
and  that,  thenceforth,  all  that  may  ensue 
will  no  longer  concern  us. 

"What  immortality  can  one  promise  to 
men  who  almost  necessarily  conceive  it  in  . 
this  guise?  How  can  we  help  it?"  asks  a 
puerile,  but  profound  instinct.  Any  immor- 
tality that  does  not  drag  with  it  through 
eternity,  like  the  fetters  of  the  convict  that 
we  were,  the  strange  consciousness  formed 
during  a  few  years  of  movement,  any  im- 
mortality that  does  not  bear  that  indelible 
mark  of  our  identity  is  for  us  as  though  it 
were  not.  Most  of  the  religions  have 
understood  this  and  have  taken  account  of 

33 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

that  instinct  which  desires  and  at  the  same 
time  destroys  the  after-life.  It  is  thus  that 
the  Catholic  Church,  going  back  to  the 
most  primitive  hopes,  promises  us  not  only 
the  integral  preservation  of  our  earthly  ego, 
but  even  the  resurrection  of  our  own  flesh. 
There  lies  the  crux  of  the  riddle.  When 
we  demand  that  this  small  consciousness, 
that  this  sense  of  a  special  ego — almost 
childish  and,  in  any  case,  extraordinarily 
limited  :jprobably  an  infirmity  of  our  actual 
intelligence^— should  accompany  us  into  the 
infinity  of  time  in  order  that  we  may  under- 
stand and  enjoy  it,  are  we  not  wishing  to 
perceive  an  object  with  the  aid  of  an  organ 
that  is  not  intended  to  perceive  it?  Are 
we  not  asking  that  our  hand  should  dis- 
cover the  light  or  that  our  eye  should  take 
in  perfumes?  Are  we  not,  on  the  other 
hand,  acting  like  a  sick  man  who,  in  order 
to  recognise  himself,  to  be  quite  sure  that 
he  is  himself,  should  think  it  necessary  to 

34 


Immortality- 
continue  his  sickness  in  his  health  and  in 
the  boundless  sequence  of  his  days?  The 
comparison,  for  that  matter,  is  more  accu- 
rate than  is  the  habit  of  comparisons.  Pic- 
ture a  blind  man  who  is  also  paralysed  and 
deaf.  He  has  been  in  this  condition  from 
his  birth  and  has  just  attained  his  thirtieth 
year.  What  can  the  hours  have  embroi- 
dered on  the  imageless  web  of  this  poor  life  ? 
The  unhappy  man  must  have  gathered  in 
the  depths  of  his  memory,  for  lack  of  other 
recollections,  a  few  wretched  sensations  of 
heat  and  cold,  of  weariness  and  rest,  of. 
more  or  less  keen  physical  sufferings,  of 
hunger  and  thirst.  It  is  probable  that  all 
human  joys,  all  our  ideal  hopes  and  dreams 
of  paradise  will  be  reduced  for  him  to  the 
confused  sense  of  well-being  that  follows 
the  allaying  of  a  pain.  This,  then,  is  the 
only  possible  equipment  of  that  conscious- 
ness and  that  ego.  The  intellect,  having 
never  been  invoked  from  without,  will  sleep 

35 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

soundly,  knowing  nothing  of  itself.  Never- 
theless, the  poor  wretch  will  have  his  little 
life  to  which  he  will  cling  by  bonds  as  nar- 
row and  eager  as  though  he  were  the  hap- 
piest of  men.  He  will  dread  death;  and 
the  idea  of  entering  into  eternity  without 
carrying  with  him  the  emotions  and  memo- 
ries of  his  dark  and  silent  sick-bed  will 
plunge  him  into  the  same  despair  into  which 
we  are  plunged  by  the  thought  of  abandon- 
ing a  life  of  glory,  light  and  love  for  the 
icy  darkness  of  the  tomb. 


Let  us  now  suppose  that  a  miracle  sud- 
denly quicken  his  eyes  and  ears  and  reveal 
to  him,  through  the  open  window  at  the 
head  of  his  bed,  the  dawn  rising  over  the 
plain,  the  song  of  the  birds  in  the  trees,  the 
murmuring  of  the  wind  in  the  leaves  and 
of  the  water  against  its  banks,  the  ringing 

36 


Immortality 

of  human  voices  among  the  morning  hills. 
Let  us  suppose  also  that  the  same  miracle, 
completing  its  work,  restore  the  use  of  his 
limbs.  He  rises,  stretches  his  arms  to 
that  prodigy  which  as  yet  for  him  possesses 
neither  reality  nor  name:  the  light!  He 
opens  the  door,  staggers!  out  amidst  the 
effulgence  and  his  whole  body  dissolves  in 
all  these  marvels.  He  enters  upon  an  in- 
effable life,  upon  a  sky  whereof  no  dream 
could  have  given  him  a  foretaste;  and,  by 
a  freak  which  is  readily  admissible  in  this 
sort  of  cure,  health,  introducing  him  to  this 
inconceivable  and  unintelligible  existence, 
wipes  out  in  him  all  memory  of  days  past. 

What  will  be  the  state  of  that  ego,  of 
that  central  focus,  the  receptacle  of  all  our 
sensations,  the  spot  in  which  converges  all 
that  belongs  in  its  own  right  to  our  life,  the 
supreme  point,  the  "egotic"  point  of  our 
being,  if  I  may  venture  to  coin  a  word? 
Memory  being  abolished,  will  that  ego  re- 

37 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

cover  within  itself  a  few  traces  of  the  man 
that  was?  A  new  force,  the  intellect, 
awaking  and  suddenly  displaying  an  un- 
precedented activity,  what  relation  will  that 
intellect  keep  up  with  the  inert,  dull  germ 
whence  it  has  sprung?  At  what  corner  of 
his  past  will  the  man  clutch  to  continue  his 
identity?  And  yet  will  there  not  survive 
within  him  some  sense  or  instinct,  inde- 
pendent of  the  memory,  the  intellect  and 
I  know  not  what  other  faculties,  that  will 
make  him  recognise  that  it  is  indeed  in  him 
that  the  liberating  miracle  has  been 
wrought,  that  it  is  indeed  his  life  and  not  his 
neighbour's,  transformed,  irrecognisable, 
but  substantially  the  same,  that  has  issued 
from  the  silence  and  the  darkness  to  pro- 
long itself  in  harmony  and  light?  Can  we 
picture  the  disarray,  the  flux  and  reflux  of 
that  bewildered  consciousness?  Have  we 
any  idea  in  what  manner  the  ego  of  yester- 
day will  unite  with  the  ego  of  to-day  and 

38 


Immortality 

how  the  "egotic"  point,  the  sensitive  point 
of  the  personality,  the  only  point  which  we 
are  anxious  to  preserve  intact,  will  bear  it- 
self in  that  delirium  and  that  upheaval? 

Let  us  first  endeavour  to  reply  with  suffi- 
cient preciseness  to  this  question  which 
comes  within  the  scope  of  our  actual  and 
visible  life;  and,  if  we  are  unable  to  do  this, 
how  can  we  hope  to  solve  the  other  problem 
that  presents  itself  before  every  man  at  the 
moment  of  his  death? 


VI 

This  sensitive  point,  in  which  the  whole 
problem  is  summed  up,  for  it  is  the  only 
one  in  question  and,  except  in  so  far  as  it  is 
concerned,  immortality  is  certain ;  this  mys- 
terious point,  to  which,  in  the  presence  of 
death,  we  attach  so  high  a  value,  we  lose, 
strange  to  say,  at  any  moment  in  life  with- 
out feeling  the  least  anxiety.     Not  only  is 

39 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

it  destroyed  nightly  in  our  sleep,  but  even 
in  waking  it  is  at  the  mercy  of  a  host  of 
accidents.  A  wound,  a  shock,  an  indis- 
position, a  few  glasses  of  alcohol,  a  little 
opium,  a  little  smoke  are  enough  to  ob- 
literate it.  Even  when  nothing  impairs  it, 
it  is  not  constantly  perceptible.  We  often 
need  an  effort,  in  turning  back  upon  our- 
selves to  recapture  it,  to  become  aware  that 
such  or  such  an  event  is  occurring  to  us. 
At  the  least  distraction,  a  happiness  passes 
beside  us  without  touching  us,  without 
yielding  up  to  us  the  pleasure  which  it  con- 
tains. One  would  say  that  the  functions 
of  the  organ  by  which  we  taste  life  and 
bring  it  home  to  ourselves  are  intermittent, 
often  interrupted  or  suspended  and  that  the 
presence  of  our  ego,  except  in  pain,  is  but  a 
rapid  and  perpetual  sequence  of  departures 
and  returns.  What  reassures  us  is  that 
we  believe  ourselves  sure  to  find  it  intact  on 
awaking,  after  the  wound,  the  shock  or  the 

40 


Immortality 

distraction,  whereas  we  are  persuaded,  so 
fragile  do  we  feel  it  to  be,  that  it  is  bound 
to  disappear  for  ever  in  the  terrible  concus- 
sion that  separates  life  from  death. 

VII 

One  foremost  truth,  pending  others  which 
the  future  will  no  doubt  reveal,  is  that  in 
these  questions  of  life  and  death,  our  imag- 
ination has  remained  very  childish.  Almost 
every  elsewhere,  it  precedes  reason;  but 
here  it  still  loiters  over  the  games  of  the 
earliest  ages.  It  surrounds  itself  with  the 
dreams  and  the  barbarous  longings  where- 
with it  lulled  the  hopes  and  fears  of  cave- 
dwelling  man.  It  asks  for  things  that  are 
impossible,  because  they  are  too  small.  It 
claims  privileges  which,  if  obtained,  were 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  the  most  enormous 
disasters  with  which  nihility  threatens  us. 
Can  we  think  without  shuddering  of  an 

4i 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

eternity  contained  wholly  within  our  infini- 
tesimal actual  consciousness?  And  behold 
how,  in  all  this,  we  obey  the  illogical  whims 
of  what  used  to  be  called  la  folle  du  logis! 
Which  of  us,  if  he  went  to  sleep  to-night 
in  the  scientific  certainty  of  awaking  in  a 
hundred  years  as  he  is  to-day,  with  his  body 
intact,  even  on  condition  that  he  lost  all 
memory  of  his  previous  life — would  those 
memories  not  be  useless? — which  of  us 
would  not  welcome  that  secular  sleep  with 
the  same  confidence  as  the  brief,  gentle 
slumbers  of  his  every  night?  Far  from 
dreading  it,  would  not  many  hasten  to 
make  the  trial  with  eager  curiosity?  Should 
we  not  see  numbers  of  men  assail  the  dis- 
penser of  the  fairy  sleep  with  their  prayers 
and  implore  as  a  favour  what  they  would 
deem  a  miraculous  prolongation  of  their 
life?  And  yet,  during  that  sleep,  how 
much  would  remain  and  how  much  of 
themselves     would    they    find    again    on 

42 


Immortality 

awaking?  What  link,  at  the  moment  when 
they  closed  their  eyes,  would  connect  them 
with  the  being  that  was  to  awake  with- 
out memories,  unknown,  in  a  new  world? 
Nevertheless,  their  consent  and  all  their 
hopes  at  the  beginning  of  that  long  night 
would  depend  upon  that  non-existing  link. 
There  is,  in  fact,  between  real  death  and 
this  sleep  only  the  difference  of  that  awak- 
ening deferred  for  a  century,  an  awakening 
here  as  alien  to  him  who  had  gone  to  sleep 
as  the  birth  would  be  of  a  posthumous 
child. 

VIII 

On  the  other  hand,  what  answer  do  we 
make  to  the  question  when  it  has  to  do  not 
with  us,  but  with  the  things  that  breathe 
with  us  on  earth?  Are  we  concerned,  for 
instance,  about  the  after-life  of  the  animals  ? 
The  most  faithful,  affectionate  and  intelli- 
gent dog,  once  dead,  becomes  but  a  repul- 

43 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

sive  carcass,  which  we  hasten  to  get  rid  of. 
It  does  not  even  seem  possible  to  us  to  ask 
ourselves  if  any  part  of  the  already  spiritual 
life  which  we  loved  in  him  subsist  else- 
where in  our  memory,  or  if  there  be  another 
world  for  dogs.  It  would  appear  rather 
ridiculous  to  us  that  time  and  space  should 
preserve  preciously,  for  all  eternity,  among 
the  stars  and  the  boundless  mansions  of  the 
sky,  the  soul  of  a  poor  beast,  made  up  of 
five  or  six  touching,  but  very  unsophisti- 
cated habits  and  of  the  longing  to  eat  and 
drink,  to  sleep  warm  and  to  greet  his  kind 
in  the  manner  which  we  know.  Besides, 
what  could  remain  of  that  soul,  composed 
entirely  of  the  few  needs  of  a  rudimentary 
body,  when  that  body  has  ceased  to  exist? 
Yet  by  what  right  do  we  imagine  between 
ourselves  and  the  animal  an  abyss  that  does 
not  exist  even  between  the  mineral  and  the 
vegetable,  the  vegetable  and  the  animal? 
This  right  to  believe  ourselves  so  far,  so 

44 


Immortality 

different  from  all  that  lives  upon  earth,  this 
pretension  to  place  ourselves  in  a  category 
and  a  kingdom  to  which  the  very  gods 
whom  we  have  created  would  not  always 
have  access :  these  are  what  we  must  first  of 
all  examine. 

IX 

It  would  be  impossible  to  set  forth  all  the 
paralogisms  of  our  imagination  on  the 
point  which  we  are  discussing.  Thus,  we 
are  pretty  easily  resigned  to  the  dissolution 
of  our  body  in  the  grave.  We  are  not  at  all 
anxious  that  it  should  accompany  us  in  the 
infinity  of  time.  Upon  reflection,  we  should 
even  be  vexed  were  it  to  escort  us  with  its 
inevitable  drawbacks,  its  faults,  its  blem- 
ishes and  its  absurdities.  What  we  intend 
to  take  with  us  is  our  soul.  But  what  shall 
we  answer  to  one  who  asks  us  if  it  be  pos- 
sible to  conceive  that  this  soul  is  anything 
more  than  the  sum  total  of  our  intellectual 

45 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

and  moral  faculties,  added,  if  you  will — to 
make  full  measure — to  all  those  which  fall 
within  the  jurisdiction  of  our  instinct,  our 
unconsciousness,  our  subconsciousness? 
Now,  when,  at  the  approach  of  old  age,  we 
see  these  same  faculties  become  impaired 
in  either  ourselves  or  others,  we  do  not  dis- 
tress ourselves,  we  do  not  despair  any  more 
than  we  distress  ourselves  or  despair  when 
we  behold  the  slow  decline  of  our  physical 
strength.  We  keep  intact  our  dim  hope  of 
an  after-life.  It  seems  to  us  quite  natural 
that  the  state  of  one  set  of  faculties  should 
depend  upon  the  state  of  the  others.  Even 
when  the  former  are  completely  destroyed 
in  a  being  whom  we  love,  we  do  not  consider 
that  we  have  lost  him  or  that  he  has  lost 
his  ego,  his  moral  personality,  of  which, 
however,  nothing  remains.  We  should  not 
mourn  his  loss,  we  should  not  think  that  he 
was  no  more,  if  death  preserved  those 
faculties  in  their  state  of  annihilation.    But, 

46 


Immortality 

if  we  do  not  attach  a  capital  importance  to 
the  dissolution  of  our  body  in  the  tomb,  or 
to  the  dissolution  of  our  intellectual  faculties 
during  life,  what  is  it  that  we  ask  death  to 
spare  and  of  what  unrealisable  dream  do 
we  demand  the  realisation? 


X 

In  truth,  we  cannot,  at  least  for  the  mo- 
ment, imagine  an  acceptable  answer  to  the 
question  of  immortality.  Why  be  aston- 
ished? Here  stands  my  lamp  on  my  table. 
It  contains  no  mystery;  it  is  the  oldest,  the 
best  known  and  the  most  familiar  object  in 
the  house.  I  see  in  it  oil,  a  wick,  a  glass 
chimney;  and  all  of  this  forms  light.  The 
riddle  begins  only  when  I  ask  myself  what 
this  light  is,  whence  it  comes  when  I  call  it, 
where  it  goes  when  I  extinguish  it.  Then, 
suddenly,  around  this  small  object  which  I 
can  lift,  take  to  pieces  and  which  might 

47 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

have  been  fashioned  by  my  hands,  the  riddle 
becomes  unfathomable.  Gather  round  my 
table  all  the  men  that  live  upon  this  earth: 
not  one  will  be  able  to  tell  us  what  this  little 
flame  is  which  I  cause  to  take  birth  or  to 
die  at  my  pleasure.  And,  should  one  of 
them  venture  upon  one  of  those  definitions 
known  as  scientific,  every  word  of  the  defini- 
tion will  multiply  the  unknown  and,  on 
every  side,  open  unexpected  doors  into  end- 
less night.  If  we  know  nothing  of  the  es- 
sence, the  destiny,  the  life  of  a  gleam  of 
familiar  light  of  which  all  the  elements 
were  created  by  ourselves,  of  which  the 
source,  the  proximate  causes  and  the  effects 
are  contained  within  a  china  bowl,  how  can 
we  hope  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  a  life 
of  which  the  simplest  elements  are  situated 
at  millions  of  years,  at  thousands  of  mil- 
lions of  leagues  from  our  intelligence  in 
time  and  space? 


48 


Immortality 

XI 

Since  humanity  began  to  exist,  it  has  not 
advanced  a  single  step  on  the  road  of  the 
mystery  which  we  are  contemplating.  No 
question  which  we  ask  ourselves  on  the  sub- 
ject touches,  on  my  side,  the  sphere  in 
which  our  intelligence  is  formed  and  moves. 
There  is  perhaps  no  relation  possible  or 
imaginable  between  the  organ  that  puts  the 
question  and  the  reality  that  ought  to  reply 
to  it.  The  most  active  and  searching  en- 
quiries of  late  years  have  taught  us  nothing. 
Learned  and  conscientious  psychical  soci- 
eties, notably  in  England,  have  got  together 
an  imposing  collection  of  irrefutable  facts 
which  prove  that  the  life  of  the  spiritual  or 
nervous  being  can  continue  for  a  certain 
time  after  the  death  of  the  material  being. 
No  sincere  mind  now  dreams  of  denying  the 
possibility  of  these  facts  supported  by  docu- 
mentary and  other  evidence  as  conclusive 

49 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

as  that  which  serves  as  a  basis  for  our  firm- 
est scientific  convictions.  But  all  this  merely 
removes  by  a  few  lines,  by  a  few  hours  the 
beginning  of  the  mystery.  If  the  ghost  of 
a  person  whom  I  love,  clearly  recognisable 
and  apparently  so  much  alive  that  I  speak 
to  it,  enter  my  room  to-night  at  the  very 
minute  when  life  is  quitting  the  body  at 
a  thousand  miles  from  the  spot  where  I  am, 
that  is,  no  doubt,  very  strange,  even  as  every- 
thing is  strange  in  a  world  of  which  we  do 
not  understand  the  first  word;  but  it  shows 
at  most  that  the  soul,  the  spirit,  the  breath, 
the  nervous  and  indiscernible  force  of  the 
subtlest  part  of  our  matter  can  disengage 
itself  from  that  matter  and  survive  it  for  an 
instant,  even  as  the  flame  of  a  lamp  which 
we  extinguish  sometimes  becomes  detached 
from  the  wick  and  hovers  for  a  moment  in 
the  darkness.  Certainly,  the  phenomenon 
is  an  astonishing  one;  but  given  the  nature 
of  that  spiritual  force,  we  ought  to  be  much 

50 


Immortality 

more  astonished  that  it  is  not  produced 
more  frequently  and  at  our  pleasure,  in 
the  fulness  of  life.  In  any  case,  it  throws 
no  light  upon  the  question.  Never  has  a 
single  one  of  those  phantasms  appeared  to 
have  the  least  consciousness  of  a  new  life, 
of  a  supraterrestrial  life,  a  life  different 
from  that  just  abandoned  by  the  body 
whence  it  emanated.  On  the  contrary,  the 
spiritual  life  of  all  of  them,  at  that  moment 
when  it  ought  to  be  pure,  since  it  is  rid  of 
matter,  seems  greatly  inferior  to  what  it  was 
when  enveloped  in  matter.  Most  of  them, 
in  a  sort  of  somnambulistic  dulness,  pursue 
mechanically  the  most  insignificant  of  their 
accustomed  preoccupations.  One  looks  for 
its  hat,  which  it  has  left  on  a  chair  or  table; 
another  is  troubled  about  a  small  debt  or 
anxious  to  know  the  time.  And  all  of 
them,  a  little  later,  at  the  moment  when  the 
real  after-life  ought  to  begin,  evaporate 
and  disappear  for  ever.     I  agree  that  this 

51 


The   Measure  of  the   Hours 

proves  nothing  either  for  or  against  the 
possibility  of  the  after-life.  We  do  not 
know  whether  these  brief  apparitions  be  the 
first  glimmers  of  a  new  or  the  last  of  the 
present  existence.  Perhaps  the  dead,  for 
want  of  a  better,  thus  use  and  turn  to  ac- 
count the  last  bond  that  links  them  and 
makes  them  still  perceptible  to  our  senses. 
Perhaps,  afterwards,  they  continue  to  live 
around  us,  but  fail,  despite  all  their  efforts, 
to  make  themselves  recognised  or  to  give 
us  an  idea  of  their  presence,  because  we 
have  not  the  organ  needed  to  perceive  them, 
even  as  all  our  efforts  would  fail  to  give  a 
man  blind  from  birth  the  least  notion  of 
light  or  colour.  In  any  case,  it  is  certain 
that  the  investigations  and  the  labours  of 
that  new  science  of  the  "Borderland"  as 
the  English  call  it,  have  left  the  problem 
exactly  where  it  has  been  since  the  begin- 
ning of  human  consciousness. 


52 


Immortality 

XII 

In  the  invincible  ignorance,  then,  in  which 
we  are,  our  imagination  has  the  choice  of 
our  eternal  destinies.  Now,  when  we  ex- 
amine the  different  possibilities,  we  are 
compelled  to  admit  that  the  most  beautiful 
are  not  the  least  probable.  A  first  hypothe- 
sis, to  be  put  aside  off-hand,  without  discus- 
son,  as  we  have  seen,  in  that  of  absolute 
annihilation.  A  second  hypothesis,  eagerly 
cherished  by  our  blind  instincts,  promises  us 
the  more  or  less  integral  preservation, 
through  the  infinity  of  time,  of  our  con- 
sciousness or  our  actual  ego.  We  have  also 
studied  this  hypothesis,  which  is  a  little 
more  plausible  than  the  first,  but  at  bottom 
so  narrow,  so  naive,  and  puerile  that, 
whether  for  men  or  for  plants  and  animals, 
one  sees  scarcely  a  means  of  finding  a  rea- 
sonable place  for  it  in  boundless  space  and 
infinite  time.     Let  us  add  that,  of  all  our 

53 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

possible  destinies,  it  would  be  the  only  one 
to  be  really  dreaded  and  that  annihilation 
pure  and  simple  would  be  a  thousand  times 
preferable. 

There  remains  the  double  hypothesis  of 
an  after-life  without  consciousness,  or  with 
an  enlarged  and  transformed  consciousness, 
of  which  that  which  we  possess  to-day  can 
give  us  no  idea,  which  it  prevents  us  rather 
from  conceiving,  even  as  our  imperfect  eye 
prevents  us  from  conceiving  any  other  light 
than  that  which  goes  from  infra-red  to 
ultra-violet,  whereas  it  is  certain  that  those 
probably  prodigious  lights  would  dazzle  on 
every  side,  in  the  darkest  night,  a  pupil 
shaped  ^differently  from  ours. 

Although  double  at  the  first  view,  the 
hypothesis  is  soon  brought  back  to  the 
simple  question  of  consciousness.  To  say, 
for  instance,  as  we  are  tempted  to  do,  that 
an  after-life  without  consciousness  is 
equivalent  to  annihilation  is  to  settle  a  priori 

54 


Immortality 

and  without  reflection  that  problem  of  con- 
sciousness which  is  the  chief  and  most 
obscure  of  all  the  problems  that  interest  us. 
It  is,  as  all  the  metaphysicians  have  pro- 
claimed, the  most  difficult  that  exists,  con- 
sidering that  the  object  of  our  knowledge 
is  the  very  thing  that  is  striving  to  know. 
What,  then,  can  that  mirror  ever  facing 
itself  do,  save  reflect  itself  indefinitely  and 
to  no  purpose?  Nevertheless,  in  that  re- 
flection incapable  of  emerging  from  the 
multiplication  of  itself  sleeps  the  only  ray 
that  is  able  to  throw  light  upon  all  the  rest. 
What  is  to  be  done?  There  is  no  other 
means  of  escaping  from  one's  consciousness 
than  to  deny  it,  to  look  upon  it  as  an 
organic  disease  of  the  terrestrial  intelli- 
gence, a  disease  which  we  must  endeavour 
to  cure  by  an  act  which  must  appear  to  us 
an  act  of  violent  and  wilful  madness,  but 
which,  on  the  other  side  of  our  seeming,  is 
probably  an  act  of  sanity. 

55 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

XIII 

But  escape  is  impossible;  and  we  return 
fatally  to  prowl  around  our  consciousness 
based  upon  our  memory,  the  most  precari- 
ous of  all  our  faculties.  It  being  evident, 
we  say,  that  nothing  can  perish,  we  must 
needs  have  lived  before  our  present  life. 
But,  as  we  are  unable  to  connect  our  previ- 
ous existence  with  our  actual  life,  this  cer- 
tainty is  as  indifferent  to  us,  passes  as  far 
from  us  as  all  the  certainties  of  our  later  life. 
And  here  we  have,  before  life  as  after 
death,  the  appearance  of  the  mnemonic  ego, 
concerning  which  it  behoves  us  once  more 
to  ask  ourselves  if  what  it  does  during  the 
few  days  of  its  activity  is  really  important 
enough  thus  to  decide,  by  reference  to  itself 
alone,  the  problem  of  immortality.  From 
the  fact  that  we  enjoy  our  ego  under  so 
exclusive,  special,  imperfect,  fragile  and 
ephemeral  a  form  does  it  follow  that  there 

56 


Immortality 

is  no  other  mode  of  consciousness,  no  other 
means  of  enjoying  life?  A  nation  of  men 
born  blind,  to  return  to  the  comparison 
which  becomes  essential,  because  it  best 
sums  up  our  situation  in  the  midst  of  the 
darkness  of  the  worlds,  a  nation  of  men 
blind  from  their  birth,  to  whom  a  solitary 
traveller  should  reveal  the  joys  of  the  light, 
would  deny  not  only  that  the  latter  was_pos- 
sible,  but  even  imaginable.  As  for  our- 
selves, is  it  not  very  nearly  certain  that  we 
lack  here  below,  among  a  thousand  other 
senses,  a  sense  superior  to  that  of  our 
mnemonic  consciousness,  in  order  to  have  a 
fuller  and  surer  enjoyment  of  our  ego? 
May  it  not  be  said  that  we  sometimes  catch 
obscure  traces  or  feeble  desires  of  that  bud- 
ding or  atrophied  sense,  oppressed  in  any 
case  and  almost  suppressed  by  the  rule  of 
our  terrestrial  life,  which  centralises  all  the 
evolutions  of  our  existence  upon  the  same 
sensitive  point?    Are  there  not  certain  con- 

57 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

fused  moments  in  which,  however  ruth- 
lessly, however  scientifically  we  may  allow 
for  egoism  pursued  to  its  most  remote  and 
secret  sources,  there  remains  in  us  some- 
thing absolutely  disinterested  that  takes 
pleasure  in  the  happiness  of  others?"*  Is  it 
not  also  possible  that  the  aimless  joys  of  art, 
the  calm  and  deep  satisfaction  into  which 
we  are  plunged  by  the  contemplation  of  a 
beautiful  statue,  of  a  perfect  building,  which 
does  not  belong  to  us,  which  we  shall  never 
see  again,  which  arouses  no  sensual  desire, 
which  can  be  of  no  service  to  us :  is  it  not 
possible  that  this  satisfaction  may  be  the 
pale  glimmer  of  a  different  consciousness 
that  filters  through  a  cranny  of  our 
mnemonic  consciousness?  If  we  are  un- 
able to  imagine  that  different  conscious- 
ness, that  is  no  reason  for  denying  it.  I 
even  believe  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  assert 
that  this  would  be  a  reason  for  admitting  it. 
All  our  life  would  be  spent  in  the  midst  of 

58 


Immortality 

things  which  we  could  never  have  imagined, 
if  our  senses,  instead  of  being  given  to 
us  all  together,  had  been  granted  to  us  one 
by  one  and  from  year  to  year.  For  that 
matter,  one  of  these  senses,  the  sense  of 
generation,  which  awakens  only  at  the 
approach  of  puberty,  shows  us  that  the  dis- 
covery of  an  unexpected  world,  the  displace- 
ment of  all  the  axes  of  our  life  depends 
upon  an  accident  of  our  organism.  During 
childhood,  we  did  not  suspect  the  existence 
of  a  whole  world  of  passions,  of  love's 
frenzies  and  sorrows  which  excite  "grown- 
up people."  If  some  garbled  echo  of  those 
sounds,  by  chance,  happened  to  reach  our 
innocent  and  curious  ears,  we  did  not  suc- 
ceed in  understanding  what  manner  of  fury 
or  madness  was  thus  seizing  hold  of  our 
elders  and  we  promised  ourselves,  when  the 
time  came,  to  be  more  sensible,  until  the 
day  when  love  unexpectedly  appearing  dis- 
turbed the  centre  of  gravity  of  all  our  feel- 

59 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

ings  and  of  most  of  our  ideas.     We  see, 
therefore,  that  to  imagine  or  not  to  imag- 
ine depends  upon  so  little  that  we_have_no_, 
riffht  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  that  whkh— 
we  cannot  conceive. 

XIV 

What  keeps  and  will  long  still  keep  us 
from  enjoying  the  treasures  of  the  universe 
is  the  hereditary  resignation  with  which 
we  tarry  in  the  gloomy  prison  of  our  senses. 
Our  imagination,  as  we  lead  it  to-day,  ac- 
commodates  itself  too  readily  to  that 
captivity.  True,  it  is  the  slave  of  those 
senses  which  alone  feed  it.  But  it  does  not 
sufficiently  cultivate  within  itself  the  intui- 
tions and  presentiments  which  tell  it  that 
it  is  kept  absurdly  captive  and  that  it  should 
seek  outlets  even  beyond  the  most  resplen- 
dent and  infinite  circles  which  it  pictures  to 
itself.    It  is  important  that  our  imagination 

60 


Immortality 

should  say  to  itself,  with  ever-increasing 
seriousness,  that  the  real  world  begins  thou- 
sands of  millions  of  leagues  beyond  its  most 
ambitious  and  daring  dreams.  Never  was 
it  entitled,  nay,  bound  to  be  more  madly 
reckless  than  now.  All  that  it  succeeds  in 
building  and  multiplying  in  the  most  enor- 
mous space  and  time  that  it  is  capable  of 
conceiving  is  as  nothing  compared  with 
what  is.  Already  the  smallest  revelations 
of  science  in  our  humble  daily  life  teach  it 
that,  even  in  this  modest  environment,  it 
is  unable  to  cope  with  reality,  that  it  is  being 
constantly  overwhelmed,  bewildered,  daz- 
zled by  all  the  unexpected  that  lies  hidden 
in  a  stone,  a  grain  of  salt,  a  glass  of  water, 
a  plant,  an  insect.  It  is  already  something 
to  be  convinced  of  this,  for  that  places  us  in 
a  state  of  mind  that  watches  every  occasion 
to  break  through  the  magic  circle  of  our 
blindness;  it  persuades  us  also  that  we  can- 
not hope  to  find  decisive  truths  within  this 

61 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

circle,  that  they  all  lie  beyond  it.  Man,  to 
maintain  his  sense  of  proportion,  has  a  need 
to  tell  himself  at  every  moment  that,  were 
he  suddenly  placed  amid  the  realities  of  the 
universe,  he  would  be  exactly  comparable 
with  an  ant  which,  knowing  only  the  nar- 
row pathways,  the  tiny  holes,  the  ap- 
proaches and  horizons  of  its  ant-heap, 
should  suddenly  find  itself  floating  on  a 
straw  in  the  midst  of  the  Atlantic.  Pending 
the  time  when  we  shall  have  left  a 
prison  which  prevents  us  from  coming  into 
touch  with  the  realities  beyond  our  imagina- 
tion, we  stand  a  much  greater  chance  of 
lighting  upon  a  fragment  of  truth  by  imag- 
ining the  most  unimaginable  things  than  by 
striving  to  lead  the  dreams  of  that  imagina- 
tion, through  the  midst  of  eternity,  between 
the  dikes  of  logic  and  of  actual  possibilities. 
Let  us  therefore  try,  whenever  a  new  dream 
presents  itself,  to  snatch  from  before  our 
eyes  the  bandage  of  our  earthly  life.  Let  us 

62 


Immortality 

say  to  ourselves  that,  among  all  the  possi- 
bilities which  the  universe  still  hides  from 
us,  one  of  the  easiest  to  realise,  one  of  the 
most  probable,  the  least  ambitious  and  the 
least  disconcerting  is  certainly  the  possi- 
bility of  enjoying  an  existence  much  more 
spacious,  lofty,  perfect,  durable  and  secure 
than  that  which  is  offered  to  us  byour  actual 
consciousness.  Admitting  this  possibility 
— and  there  are  few  as  probable — the  prob- 
lem of  our  immortality  is,  in  principle, 
solved.  It  now  becomes  a  question  of 
grasping  or  foreseeing  its  ways  and,  amid 
the  circumstances  that  interest  us  the  most, 
of  knowing  what  part  of  our  intellectual 
and  moral  acquirements  will  pass  into  our 
eternal  and  universal  life.  This  is  not  the 
work  of  to-day  or  to-morrow ;  but  it  would 
need  no  incredible  miracle  to  make  it  the 
work  of  some  other  day.  .    .   . 


63 


THE  GODS  OF  WAR 


THE  GODS  OF  WAR 


WAR  ever  offers  a  magnificent  theme 
for  the  meditations  of  men  and  one 
that  is  incessantly  renewed.  It  remains  cer- 
tain, alas,  that  most  of  our  efforts  and  in- 
ventions are  always  converging  towards  it, 
making  of  it  a  sort  of  diabolical  mirror  in 
which  the  progress  of  our  civilisation  is  re- 
flected upside  down. 

I  propose  to-day  to  look  at  it  from  only 
one  point  of  view,  in  order  once  again  to 
establish  the  fact  that  the  more  we  triumph 
over  the  unknown  forces  the  more  we  yield 
to  them.  No  sooner  have  we  perceived  in 
the  obscurity  or  the  apparent  sleep  of  nature 
a  new  glimmer,  a  new  source  of  energy  than 
we   often  become   its  victims   and  nearly 

67 


The   Measure  of  the  Hours 

always  its  slaves.  It  is  as  though,  thinking 
to  free  ourselves,  we  freed  formid- 
able enemies.  True  it  is  that,  in  the 
long  run,  those  enemies  end  by  allowing 
themselves  to  be  led  and  render  us  services 
wherewith  we  could  no  longer  dispense. 
But  hardly  has  one  of  them  made  its  sub- 
mission before,  in  the  very  act  of  passing 
under  the  yoke,  it  places  us  on  the  track  of 
an  infinitely  more  dangerous  adversary;  and 
thus  our  fate  becomes  more  and  more  glori- 
ous and  more  and  more  uncertain.  More- 
over, among  these  adversaries  are  some 
that  seem  quite  indomitable.  But  perhaps 
they  remain  refractory  only  because  they 
know  better  than  the  others  how  to  appeal 
to  those  evil  instincts  of  our  heart  which 
delay  by  many  centuries  the  conquests  of 
our  intelligence. 


68 


The  Gods  of  War 

II 

This  is  notably  the  case  with  the  majority 
of  the  inventions  that  relate  to  war.  We 
have  seen  this  in  recent  monstrous  conflicts. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  his- 
tory, entirely  new  forces,  mature  at  last, 
have  emerged  from  the  darkness  of  a  long 
period  of  experiment  and  probation  and 
come  to  take  the  place  of  men  on  the  battle- 
field. Until  the  late  wars,  these  forces  still 
hung  back,  held  themselves  aloof  and  acted 
only  from  afar.  They  were  reluctant  to  as- 
sert themselves;  and  there  was  still  some 
connection  between  their  mysterious  action 
and  the  work  of  our  own  hands.  The 
range  of  the  rifle  was  not  greater  than  that 
of  our  eye;  and  the  destructive  energy  of 
the  most  murderous  gun,  of  the  most  for- 
midable explosive  still  preserved  human 
proportions.  To-day,  we  are  over- 
whelmed, we  have  definitely  abdicated,  our 

69 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

reign  is  ended;  and  behold  us,  as  so  many 
grains  of  sand,  at  the  mercy  of  the  mon- 
strous and  enigmatic  powers  whose  aid  we 
have  dared  to  invoke. 


Ill 

It  is  true  that  the  part  played  by  man  in 
battle  was  never  preponderating  or  decisive. 
Already  in  the  days  of  Homer,  the  divini- 
ties of  Olympus  mingled  with  mortals 
on  the  plains  of  Troy  and,  wrapped  in  their 
silvery  cloud,  which  rendered  them  invisi- 
ble without  hampering  their  action,  pro- 
tected, dominated  or  struck  terror  into  the 
warriors.  But  these  divinities  had  a  limited 
power  and  a  limited  mystery.  Their  inter- 
vention, although  superhuman,  still  re- 
flected the  form  and  psychology  of  man. 
Their  secrets  revolved  in  the  narrow  orbit 
of      our      own      secrets.        The      heaven 

from  which  they  issued  was  the  heaven  of 

70 


The  Gods  of  War 

our  conception;  their  passions,  their  sor- 
rows, their  thoughts  were  but  little  juster, 
loftier  or  purer  than  our  own.  Then,  as 
man  developed,  as  illusion  fell  from  him, 
as  his  consciousness  increased  and  the  world 
stood  more  plainly  revealed,  the  gods  that 
went  with  him  became  greater,  although 
more  distant;  mightier,  though  more  ob- 
scure. With  his  increase  of  knowledge  and 
comprehension,  the  unknown  flooded  his 
domain;  and,  as  he  organised  and  extended 
his  armies,  perfected  his  weapons  and,  with 
his  growing  science,  mastered  natural 
forces,  so  do  we  find  the  fortune  of  battle 
ignoring  the  captain  and  heeding  only  the 
group  of  undecipherable  laws  which  we 
term  chance,  or  hazard,  or  destiny.  Con- 
sider, for  instance,  the  admirable  picture,  so 
palpably  true  to  life,  which  Tolstoi  draws 
of  the  battle  of  Borodino  or  the  Moskowa, 
a  type  of  one  of  the  great  battles  of  the  Em- 
pire.      The    two     chiefs,     Kutusoff     and 

71 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

Napoleon,  are  so  far  away  from  the  scene 
that  they  perceive  only  the  most  insignifi- 
cant details;  they  know  hardly  aught  of 
what  is  happening.  Kutusoff,  like  the  good 
Sclavonic  fatalist  that  he  is,  is  aware  of  "the 
force  of  circumstance."  Sprawling  outside 
a  hovel,  on  a  bench  over  which  a  carpet  has 
been  spread,  the  unwieldy,  one-eyed  Rus- 
sian drowsily  awaits  the  result,  giving  no 
orders,  content  to  say  "Yes"  or  "No"  to  the 
suggestions  that  reach  him.  Napoleon,  on 
the  other  hand,  believes  himself  able  to  gov- 
ern events  of  which  he  is  not  even  the  wit- 
ness. He  has  dictated  the  arrangements  of 
the  battle  on  the  night  before;  and,  from 
the  very  first  onslaught,  owing  to  that  same 
"force  of  circumstance"  to  which  Kutusoff 
pins  his  faith,  not  one  of  these  arrange- 
ments has  been  or  could  have  been  carried 
into  effect.  But  he  clings  none  the  less  to 
the  imaginary  plan  which  reality  has  shat- 
tered; he  believes  that  he  is  issuing  orders, 

72 


The  Gods  of  War 

whereas,  in  truth,  he  is  merely  following — 
and  that  too  late — the  mandates  of  chance 
that  everywhere  arrive  in  advance  of  his 
haggard,  hysterical  messengers.  And  the 
battle  pursues  the  course  that  nature  has 
traced  for  it,  like  the  river  that  flows  on  its 
way  without  heeding  the  cries  of  the  men 
on  its  banks. 


IV 

And  yet  Napoleon,  of  all  the  generals  of 
our  later  wars,  remains  the  only  one  who 
preserved  the  semblance  of  human  direc- 
tion. The  external  forces  that  seconded  and 
already  dominated  the  efforts  of  his  troops 
were  still  in  their  cradle.  But,  in  our  day, 
what  could  he  do?  Would  he  be  able  to 
recapture  one  hundredth  part  of  the  influ- 
ence which  he  was  able  to  exercise  on  the 
fate  of  battles?  For,  to-day,  the  children  of 
mystery  have  emerged  from  childhood;  the 

73 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

gods  are  other  that  press  on  our  ranks,  break 
our  lines  and  scatter  our  squadrons,  sink  our 
ships  and  wreck  our  fortresses.  These  gods 
have  no  longer  a  human  shape;  they  issue 
from  primitive  chaos,  far  beyond  the  home 
of  their  predecessors;  and  all  their  laws, 
their  power,  their  intentions  must  be  sought 
outside  the  circle  of  our  own  life,  on 
the  other  face  of  our  intelligent  sphere,  in  a 
world  that  is  closely  sealed,  the  world  most 
hostile  of  all  to  the  destinies  of  our  species: 
the  raw,  formless  world  of  inert  matter. 
And  it  is  to  this  blind  and  frightful  un- 
known, which  has  nothing  in  common  with 
us,  which  obeys  impulses  and  commands  as 
incomprehensible  as  those  which  govern  the 
most  fabulously  distant  stars;  it  is  to  this 
impenetrable,  irresistible  energy  that  we 
confide  the  exclusive  attribute  of  what  is 
highest  in  the  form  of  life  which  we  are 
alone  to  represent  in  this  world ;  it  is  to  these 
undefinable  monsters  that  we  entrust  the 

74 


The  Gods  of  War 

almost  divine  mission  of  establishing  the 
right  and  separating  the  just  from  the  un- 
just. .   .  . 


What  are  the  powers  to  which  we  have 
thus  abandoned  our  specific  privileges?  I 
think  at  times  of  a  man  whose  eyes  should 
be  able  to  discern  what  is  floating  around 
us,  able  to  distinguish  all  the  population 
of  this  ether  which  our  glances  assure  us 
to  be  transparent  and  empty,  even  as  the 
blind,  did  not  other  senses  undeceive  them, 
might  hold  the  darkness  to  be  empty  that 
fastens  upon  thier  brow.  Suppose  such  a 
man  to  pierce  the  quicksilver  of  this  crystal 
sphere  which  we  inhabit  and  which  to 
us  reflects  only  our  own  face,  our  own 
gestures  and  our  own  thoughts.  Imagine 
that,  one  day,  passing  beyond  the  appear- 
ances that  imprison  us,  we  were  to  attain 
at  last  the  essential  realities  and  that  the 

75 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

invisible  which,  on  every  side,  confines  us, 
fells  us  and  lifts  us,  ordains  our  retreat,  our 
pause  and  our  advance  were  suddenly  to 
strip  the  covering  from  the  immense,  the 
awful,  the  inconceivable  images  that,  in 
some  hollow  of  space,  must  inevitably  be 
borne  by  the  phenomena  and  laws  of  nature 
whereof  we  are  the  frail  playthings. — Nor 
should  this  be  looked  on  merely  as  a  poet's 
dream;  it  is  now  that  we  dream,  when  we 
tell  ourselves  that  these  laws  have  neither 
face  nor  form,  when  we  forget  so  readily 
their  omnipotent  and  indefatigable  pres- 
ence; we  are  now  dreaming  the  puny  dream 
of  human  illusion,  whereas  then  we  should 
enter  the  eternal  truth  of  the  life  without 
limit  in  which  our  own  life  is  bathed. — The 
spectacle  would  be  appalling:  it  would  be  a 
revelation  that  would  terrify  all  human 
energy  and  paralyse  it  at  the  roots  of  its 
nothingness.  Consider,  for  instance,  among 
the  many  illusory  triumphs  of  our  blindness, 

76 


The  Gods  of  War 

two  fleets  that  prepare  for  battle.  A  few 
thousand  men,  as  imperceptible,  as  helpless, 
in  their  relation  to  the  forces  brought  into 
play,  as  a  handful  of  ants  in  a  virgin  forest; 
a  few  thousand  men  flatter  themselves  that 
they  have  enslaved  and  turned  to  their  pur- 
pose, to  serve  an  idea  entirely  foreign  to  the 
universe,  the  most  immeasurable  and  the 
most  dangerous  of  its  laws.  Try  to  provide 
each  of  these  laws  with  an  aspect,  a  physiog- 
nomy proportionate  and  appropriate  to  its 
power  and  its  functions !  And,  if  you  fear 
to  let  your  mind  dwell  on  what  is  impos- 
sible and  unimaginable,  leave  out  of  count 
the  profoundest,  the  most  august  of  these 
laws,  among  others  that  of  gravitation, 
which  the  ships  obey  as  well  as  the  sea  that 
bears  them  and  the  earth  that  bears  the  sea 
and  the  planets  that  support  the  earth.  You 
would  have  to  seek  so  far,  in  such  solitudes, 
in  such  infinities,  beyond  such  stars,  for  the 
elements  that  compose  it  that  the  wildest 

77 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

dream  would  pause  in  helplessness,  nor  the 
whole  universe  suffice  to  lend  a  mask. 


VI 

Let  us,  therefore,  take  those  laws  alone 
which  are  more  limited,  if  there  be  any 
that  have  limits;  those  which  are  nearer 
to  us,  if  there  be  any  that  are  near.  Let 
us  take  only  the  laws  which  these  ships 
imagine  to  be  submissively  confined  in  their 
flanks:  the  laws  which  we  regard  as  espe- 
cially docile  and  the  daughters  of  our 
achievement.  What  monstrous  form,  what 
gigantic  shadow  shall  we  attribute,  to  take 
one  instance  alone,  to  the  power  of  ex- 
plosives, those  recent  and  supreme  gods, 
which  have  just  dethroned,  in  the  temples 
of  war,  all  the  gods  of  the  past?  With  what 
family  of  terrors,  what  unforeseen  group  of 
mysteries  shall  we  connect  them  ?  Melinite, 
dynamite,  panclastite,  cordite  and  roburite, 

78 


The  Gods  of  War 

lyddite  and  ballistite,  O  ye  indescribable 
spectres,  by  whose  side  the  old  black  pow- 
der that  struck  terror  into  our  fathers  and 
even  the  mighty  thunderbolt,  once  held  the 
most  awful  symbol  of  divine  anger,  become 
mere  gossipy,  good-natured  old  women,  a 
little  ready  to  strike,  perhaps,  but  almost 
inoffensive,  almost  maternal :  of  your  count- 
less secrets  not  even  the  most  superficial  has 
been  laid  bare;  and  the  chemist  who  com- 
poses your  slumber,  even  as  the  engineer 
or  artilleryman  who  awakens  you,  is  in  total 
ignorance  of  your  nature,  your  origin,  your 
soul,  the  springs  of  your  incredible  bound 
and  the  eternal  laws  which  you  so  suddenly 
obey!  Are  you  the  result  of  things  im- 
prisoned since  the  beginning  of  time;  are 
you  the  gleaming  transfiguration  of  death, 
the  awful  gladness  of  the  palpitating  void; 
are  you  eruption  of  hatred  or  excess  of  joy? 
Are  you  a  new  form  of  life  and  so  ardent 
that  you  consume  in  a  second  the  patience 

79 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

of  twenty  centuries  ?  Are  you  a  flame  from 
the  enigma  of  the  worlds  that  has  found  a 
fissure  in  the  walls  of  silence  that  enclose  it? 
Are  you  an  audacious  loan  from  the  reserve 
of  energy  that  supports  our  earth  in  space? 
Do  you,  for  that  unequalled  bound  of  yours 
towards  a  new  destiny,  gather  up,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  all  that  has  been  stored, 
all  that  has  been  gathered  and  prepared  in 
the  secret  of  rocks  and  seas  and  mountains? 
Are  you  soul  or  matter  or  a  third  state  still 
unknown  to  life?  Whence  do  you  derive 
your  destructive  passion,  where  do  you  rest 
the  lever  that  splits  a  continent,  whence 
does  the  impetus  depart  that  exceeds  the 
zone  of  the  stars  whereon  the  earth,  your 
mother,  exercises  her  will? 

To  all  these  questions  the  man  of  science 
who  creates  you  will  reply  gravely  that  your 
force  "is  due  to  the  sudden  production  of  a 
great  volume  of  gas  in  a  space  too  confined 
to  contain  it  beneath  the  atmospheric  pres- 

80 


The  Gods  of  War 

sure."  All  is  now  explained,  all  is  clear. 
We  attain  at  once  the  very  depths  of  truth; 
and  here,  as  in  all  things,  know  exactly  how 
matters  stand.  .   .  . 


81 


OUR   SOCIAL    DUTY 


OUR  SOCIAL  DUTY 


LET  us  start  fairly  with  the  great  truth : 
for  those  who  possess  there  is  only  one 
certain  duty,  which  is  to  strip  themselves  of 
what  they  have,  so  as  to  bring  themselves 
into  the  condition  of  the  mass  that  possesses 
nothing.  It  is  understood,  in  every  clear- 
thinking  conscience,  that  no  more  impera- 
tive duty  exists;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is 
admitted  that  this  duty,  for  lack  of  courage, 
is  impossible  of  accomplishment.  For  the 
rest,  in  the  heroic  history  of  the  duties,  even 
at  the  most  ardent  periods,  even  at  the 
beginning  of  Christianity  and  in  the  ma- 
jority of  the  religious  orders  that  made  a 
special  cult  of  poverty,  this  is  perhaps  the 
only  duty  that  has  never  been  completely 

85 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

fulfilled.  It  behoves  us,  therefore,  when 
considering  our  subsidiary  duties,  to  remem- 
ber that  the  essential  one  has  been  know- 
ingly evaded.  Let  this  truth  govern  us. 
Let  us  not  forget  that  we  are  speaking  in 
its  shadow  and  that  our  boldest,  our  utmost 
steps  will  never  lead  us  to  the  point  at  which 
we  ought  to  have  been  from  the  first. 

II 

Since  it  appears  that  we  have  here  to  do 
with  an  absolute  impossibility  before  which 
it  were  idle  to  make  any  further  display  of 
astonishment,  let  us  accept  human  nature  as 
we  find  it.  Let  us,  therefore,  seek  on  other 
roads  than  the  one  direct  road — seeing  that 
we  have  not  the  strength  to  travel  by  it — 
that  which,  in  the  absence  of  this  strength, 
is  able  to  nourish  our  conscience.  There 
are  thus,  not  to  speak  of  the  great  question, 
two   or  three  others   which   well-disposed 

86 


Our  Social  Duty- 
hearts  are  constantly  setting  to  themselves. 
What  are  we  to  do  in  the  actual  state  of  our 
society  ?  Must  we  side,  a  priori,  systemati- 
cally, with  those  who  are  disorganising  it,  or 
join  the  camp  of  those  who  are  struggling 
to  maintain  its  economy?  Is  it  wiser  not 
to  bind  one's  choice,  to  defend  by  turns  that 
which  seems  reasonable  and  opportune  in 
either  party?  It  is  certain  that  a  sincere 
conscience  can  find,  here  or  there,  the  where- 
withal to  satisfy  its  activity  or  to  lull  its 
reproaches.  That  is  why,  in  the  presence  of 
this  choice  which  to-day  becomes  incumbent 
upon  every  upright  intelligence,  it  is  not 
unprofitable  to  weigh  the  pro  and  the  contra 
more  simply  than  after  our  usual  fashion 
and  rather  in  the  manner  of  the  unbiased 
denizen  of  some  neighbouring  planet. 


87 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

III 

Let  us  not  resume  all  the  traditional 
objections,  but  only  those  which  can  be 
seriously  defended.  We  are  first  confronted 
with  the  oldest  of  them,  which  maintains 
that  inequality  is  inevitable,  being  in  accord- 
ance with  the  laws  of  nature.  This  is  true; 
but  the  human  race  appears  not  improbably 
created  to  raise  itself  above  certain  of  the 
laws  of  nature.  Its  very  existence  would  be 
imperilled  if  it  abandoned  its  intention  to 
surmount  a  number  of  these  laws.  It  is 
in  accordance  with  its  particular  nature  to 
obey  other  laws  than  those  of  its  animal 
nature  and  the  rest.  Moreover,  this  ob- 
jection has  long  been  classed  among  those 
whose  principle  is  untenable  and  would  lead 
to  the  massacre  of  the  weak,  the  sick,  the 
old  and  so  forth. 

We  are  next  told  that  it  is  right,  in  order 
to  hasten  the  triumph  of  justice,  that  the 

88 


Our  Social   Duty 

best  among  us  should  not  prematurely  strip 
themselves  of  their  arms,  the  most  effi- 
cacious of  which  are  exactly  wealth  and 
leisure.  Here  the  necessity  of  the  great 
sacrifice  is  fairly  well  recognised,  and  only 
the  question  of  its  opportuneness  remains. 
We  agree,  provided  that  it  be  well  under- 
stood that  this  wealth  and  leisure  serve 
solely  to  hasten  the  steps  of  justice. 

Another  conservative  argument  worthy  of 
attention  declares  that,  man's  first  duty  being 
to  avoid  violence  and  bloodshed,  it  is  indis- 
pensable that  the  social  evolution  should  not 
be  too  rapid,  that  it  should  ripen  slowly,  that 
it  is  important  to  temper  it  while  the  mass 
is  being  enlightened  and  borne  gradually 
and — without  serious  upheavals  towards  a 
liberty  and  a  fulness  of  possessions  which,  at 
this  moment,  would  unchain  only  its  worst 
instincts.  This  again  is  true;  nevertheless,  it 
would  be  interesting  to  calculate,  since  we 
can  reach  the  best  only  through  the  bad, 

89 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

whether  the  evils  of  a  sudden,  radical  and 
bloody  revolution  outweigh  those  which  are 
perpetuated  in  the  slower  evolution.  It  were 
well  to  ask  ourselves  whether  there  be  not  an 
advantage  in  acting  with  all  speed;  whether, 
when  all  is  told,  the  suffering  of  those  who 
now  wait  for  justice  be  not  more  serious 
than  that  which  the  privileged  class  of  to- 
day would  have  to  undergo  for  the  space  of 
some  weeks  or  months.  We  are  too  ready 
to  forget  that  the  headsmen  of  misery  are 
less  noisy,  less  theatrical,  but  infinitely  more 
numerous,  cruel  and  active  than  those  of  the 
most  terrible  revolutions. 

IV 

We  come  at  length  to  the  last  and  perhaps 
the  most  disturbing  argument :  humanity, 
we  are  told,  has  for  more  than  a  century 
been  passing  through  the  most  fruitful  and 
victorious,  probably  the  climacteric  years  of 

90 


Our  Social   Duty 

its  destiny.  It  seems,  if  we  consider  its  past, 
to  be  in  the  decisive  phase  of  its  evolution. 
One  would  think,  from  certain  indications, 
that  it  is  nigh  upon  attaining  its  apogee. 
It  is  traversing  a  period  of  inspiration  where- 
with none  other  is  historically  to  be  com- 
pared. A  trifle,  a  last  effort,  a  flash  of  light 
which  shall  connect  or  emphasise  the  dis- 
coveries, the  intuitions  scattered  or  held  in 
suspense  alone  separates  it,  perhaps,  from 
the  great  mysteries.  It  has  lately  touched 
upon  problems  whose  solution,  at  the  cost 
of  the  hereditary  enemy,  that  is  of  the  great 
unknown  phenomenon  of  the  universe, 
would  probably  render  useless  all  the  sacri- 
fices which  justice  demands  of  men.  Is  it  not 
dangerous  to  stop  this  flight,  to  disturb  this 
precious,  precarious  and  supreme  minute? 
Admitting  even  that  what  is  gained  can  no 
longer  be  lost,  as  in  the  earlier  upheavals, 
it  is  nevertheless  to  be  feared  lest  the  vast 
disorganisation  required  by  equity  should 

91 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

put  an  abrupt  end  to  this  happy  period; 
and  it  is  not  sure  but  that  its  reappearance 
might  be  long  delayed,  the  laws  which 
preside  over  the  inspiration  of  the  genius 
of  the  race  being  as  capricious,  as  unstable 
as  those  which  preside  over  the  inspiration 
of  the  genius  of  the  individual. 


V 

This  is,  as  I  have  said,  perhaps  the  most 
disquieting  argument.  But  there  is  no 
doubt  that  it  attaches  too  great  an  impor- 
tance to  a  somewhat  uncertain  danger. 
Moreover,  prodigious  compensations  would 
attend  this  brief  interruption  of  the  victory 
of  humanity.  Can  we  foresee  what  will 
happen  when  the  human  race  as  a  whole 
will  be  taking  part  in  the  intellectual  labour 
which  is  the  labour  proper  to  our  species? 
To-day,  hardly  one  brain  in  ten  thousand 
exists  in  conditions  entirely  favourable  to 

92 


Our  Social   Duty 

its  activity.  There  is,  at  this  moment,  a 
monstrous  waste  of  spiritual  force.  Idle- 
ness at  the  top  depresses  as  many  mental 
energies  as  excess  of  manual  labour  anni- 
hilates below.  It  is  incontestable  that,  when 
it  shall  be  given  to  all  men  to  apply  them- 
selves to  the  task  at  present  reserved  for  a 
few  favourites  of  chance,  humanity  will  in- 
crease a  thousandfold  its  prospects  of 
attaining  the  great  mysterious  aim. 

Here,  I  think,  we  have  the  best  of  the 
pro  and  the  contra,  the  most  reasonable 
reasons  that  can  be  invoked  by  those  who 
are  in  no  hurry  to  end  the  matter.  In  the 
midst  of  these  reasons  stands  the  huge 
monolith  of  injustice.  There  is  no  need 
to  let  it  defend  itself.  It  oppresses  con- 
sciences, limits  intelligences.  Wherefore 
there  can  be  no  question  of  not  destroying 
it;  all  that  is  asked  of  those  who  would 
overthrow  it  is  a  few  years  of  patience,  so 
that,    when    its    surroundings    have    been 

93 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

cleared,  its  fall  may  entail  fewer  disasters. 
Are  we  to  grant  these  years?  And  which 
among  these  arguments  in  favour  of  haste 
or  of  waiting  would  be  the  object  of  the 
most  straightforward  choice? 

VI 

Do  the  pleas  for  a  few  years  of  respite 
appear  to  you  sufficient?  They  are  pre- 
carious enough;  but,  even  so,  it  would  not 
be  fair  to  condemn  them  without  consider- 
ing the  problem  from  a  higher  standpoint 
than  that  of  pure  reason.  This  point  must 
always  be  sought  as  soon  as  we  have  to  do 
with  questions  that  go  beyond  human  ex- 
perience. It  might  easily  be  maintained, 
for  instance,  that  the  choice  would  not  be 
the  same  for  all.  The  race,  which  probably 
has  an  infinite  consciousness  of  its  destinies 
which  no  individual  can  grasp,  would  have 
very  wisely  apportioned  among  men  the 

94 


Our  Social   Duty 

parts  that  suit  them  in  the  lofty  drama  of 
its  evolution.  For  reasons  which  we  do  not 
always  understand,  it  is  doubtless  necessary 
that  the  race  should  progress  slowly:  that 
is  why  the  enormous  mass  of  its  body  at- 
taches it  to  the  past  and  the  present;  and 
very  upright  intelligences  may  be  comprised 
within  this  mass,  even  as  it  is  possible  for 
greatly  inferior  minds  to  escape  from  it. 
Whether  there  be  satisfaction  or  unselfish 
discontent  on  the  side  of  the  darkness  or  of 
the  light  matters  little;  it  is  often  a  ques- 
tion of  predestination  and  the  distribu- 
tion of  characters  rather  than  of  enquiry. 
However  this  may  be,  for  us,  whose  reason 
already  judges  the  weakness  of  the  argu- 
ments of  the  past,  it  would  be  a  fresh 
motive  for  impatience.  Let  us  admit,  in 
addition,  its  very  plausible  force.  The  fact, 
therefore,  that  to-day  does  not  satisfy  us  is 
enough  to  make  it  our  duty,  our  organic 
duty,  so  to  speak,  to  destroy  all  that  sup- 

95 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

ports  it,  in  order  to  make  ready  for  the 
arrival  of  to-morrow.  Even  if  we  were  to 
perceive  very  clearly  the  dangers  and  draw- 
backs of  too  prompt  an  evolution,  it  is 
requisite,  in  order  that  we  should  loyally 
fulfil  the  function  assigned  to  us  by  the 
genius  of  the  race,  that  we  should  take  no 
notice  of  any  patience,  any  circumspection. 
In  the  social  atmosphere,  we  represent  the 
oxygen:  if  we  behave  in  it  like  the  inert 
azote,  we  betray  the  mission  which  nature 
has  entrusted  to  us;  and  this,  in  the  scale 
of  the  crimes  that  remain  to  us,  is  the 
gravest  and  most  unpardonable  of  treasons. 
It  is  not  ours  to  preoccupy  our  minds  with 
the  often  grievous  consequences  of  our  haste : 
this  is  not  written  in  our  part,  and  to  take 
account  of  it  would  be  to  add  to  that  part 
discordant  words  which  are  not  in  the 
authentic  text  dictated  by  nature.  Humanity 
has  appointed  us  to  gather  that  which  stands 
on  the  horizon.    It  has  given  us  instructions 

96 


Our  Social  Duty 

which  it  does  not  behove  us  to  discuss.  It 
distributes  its  forces  as  it  thinks  right.  At 
every  cross-way  on  the  road  that  leads  to 
the  future,  it  has  placed,  against  each  of  us, 
ten  thousand  men  to  guard  the  past;  let  us 
therefore  have  no  fear  lest  the  fairest  towers 
of  former  days  be  insufficiently  defended. 
We  are  only  too  naturally  inclined  to  tem- 
porise, to  shed  tears  over  inevitable  ruins: 
this  is  the  greatest  of  our  trespasses.  The 
least  that  the  most  timid  among  us  can  do 
— and  already  they  are  very  near  committing 
treachery — is  not  to  add  to  the  immense 
deadweight  which  nature  drags  along. 
But  let  the  others  follow  blindly  the  inmost 
impulse  of  the  power  that  urges  them  on. 
Even  if  their  reason  were  to  approve  none 
of  the  extreme  measures  in  which  they  take 
part,  let  them  act  and  hope  beyond  their 
reason;  for  in  all  things,  because  of  the 
call  of  the  earth,  we  must  aim  higher  than 
the  object  which  we  aspire  to  attain. 

97 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

VII 

Let  us  not  fear  lest  we  be  drawn  too  far; 
and  let  no  reflection,  however  just,  break  or 
temper  our  ardour.  Our  future  excesses  are 
essential  to  the  equilibrium  of  life.  There 
are  men  enough  about  us  whose  exclusive 
duty,  whose  most  precise  mission  it  is  to 
extinguish  the  fires  which  we  kindle.  Let  us 
go  always  to  the  most  extreme  limits  of  our 
thoughts,  our  hopes  and  our  justice.  Let 
us  not  persuade  ourselves  that  these  efforts 
are  incumbent  only  upon  the  best  of  us: 
this  is  not  true  and  the  humblest  among 
us  that  foresee  the  coming  of  a  dawn  which 
they  do  not  understand  must  await  it  at  the 
very  summit  of  themselves.  Their  presence 
on  these  intermediary  tops  will  fill  with 
living  substance  the  dangerous  intervals  be- 
tween the  first  heights  and  the  last  and  will 
maintain  the  indispensable  communications 

between  the  vanguard  and  the  mass. 

98 


Our  Social   Duty 

Let  us  think  sometimes  of  the  great  in- 
visible ship  that  carries  our  human  destinies 
upon  eternity.  Like  the  vessels  of  our  con- 
fined oceans,  she  has  her  sails  and  her  bal- 
last. The  fear  that  she  may  pitch  or  roll  on 
leaving  the  roadstead  is  no  reason  for  in- 
creasing the  weight  of  the  ballast  by  stowing 
the  fair,  white  sails  in  the  depths  of  the 
hold.  They  were  not  woven  to  moulder 
side  by  side  with  cobble-stones  in  the  dark. 
Ballast  exists  everywhere:  all  the  pebbles 
of  the  harbour,  all  the  sand  on  the  beach 
will  serve  for  it.  But  sails  are  rare  and 
precious  things:  their  place  is  not  in  the 
murk  of  the  well,  but  amid  the  light  of  the 
tall  masts,  where  they  will  collect  the  winds 
of  space. 

VIII 

Let  us  not  say  to  ourselves  that  the  best 
truth  always  lies  in  moderation,  in  the 
decent  average.    This  would  perhaps  be  so 

99 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

if  the  majority  of  men  did  not  think,  did  not 
hope  upon  a  much  lower  plane  than  is  need- 
ful. That  is  why  it  behoves  the  others  to 
think  and  hope  upon  a  higher  plane  than 
seems  reasonable.  The  average,  the  decent 
moderation  of  to-day  will  be  the  leasthuman 
of  things  to-morrow.  At  the  time  of  the 
Spanish  Inquisition,  the  opinion  of  good 
sense  and  of  the  just  medium  was  certainly 
that  people  ought  not  to  burn  too  large  a 
number  of  heretics;  extreme  and  unreason- 
able opinion  obviously  demanded  that  they 
should  burn  none  at  all.  It  is  the  same 
to-day  with  the  question  of  marriage,  of 
love,  of  religion,  of  criminal  justice  and  so 
on.  Has  not  mankind  yet  lived  long  enough 
to  realise  that  it  is  always  the  extreme  idea, 
that  is  the  highest  idea,  the  idea  at  the 
summit  of  thought,  that  is  right?  At  the 
present  moment,  the  most  reasonable  opin- 
ion on  the  subject  of  our  social  question 
invites  us  to  do  all  that  we  can  gradually 

IOO 


Our  Social   Duty 

to  diminish  inevitable  inequalities  and  dis- 
tribute happiness  more  equitably.  Extreme 
opinion  demands  instantly  integral  division, 
the  suppression  of  property,  obligatory 
labour  and  the  rest.  We  do  not  yet  know 
how  these  demands  will  be  realised;  but  it 
is  already  quite  certain  that  very  simple 
circumstances  will  one  day  make  them  ap- 
pear as  natural  as  the  suppression  of  the 
right  of  primogeniture  or  of  the  privileges 
of  the  nobility.  It  is  important,  in  these 
questions  of  the  duration  of  a  species  and 
not  of  a  people  or  an  individual,  that  we 
should  not  limit  ourselves  to  the  experience 
of  history.  Anything  that  it  confirms  or 
denies  moves  in  an  insignificant  circle.  The 
truth,  in  this  case,  lies  much  less  in  our 
reason,  which  is  always  turned  towards  the 
past,  than  in  our  imagination,  which  sees 
farther  than  the  future. 


IOI 

7 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

IX 

Let  us  reason,  then,  strive  to  soar  above 
experience.  This  is  easy  for  young  people ; 
but  it  is  salutary  that  ripe  age  and  old  age 
should  learn  to  raise  themselves  to  the 
luminous  ignorance  of  youth.  We  should 
guard  beforehand,  as  the  years  pass,  against 
the  dangers  which  our  confidence  in  the  race 
must  run  because  of  the  great  number  of 
malignant  men  whom  we  have  encountered 
in  it.  Let  us  continue,  in  spite  of  all,  to 
act,  to  love  and  to  hope  as  though  we 
had  to  do  with  an  ideal  humanity.  This 
ideal  is  only  a  vaster  reality  than  that 
which  we  behold.  The  failings  of  indi- 
viduals no  more  impair  the  general  purity 
and  innocence  than  the  waves  on  the  sur- 
face, according  to  the  aeronauts,  when  seen 
from  a  certain  height,  trouble  the  profound 
limpidity  of  the  sea. 


102 


Our  Social  Duty 

X 

Let  us  listen  only  to  the  experience  that 
urges  us  on;  it  is  always  higher  than  that 
which  throws  or  keeps  us  back.  Let  us 
reject  all  the  counsels  of  the  past  that  do 
not  turn  us  towards  the  future.  This  is 
what  was  admirably  understood,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  in  history,  by  certain  men 
of  the  French  Revolution;  and  that  is  why 
this  revolution  is  the  one  that  did  the  great- 
est and  the  most  lasting  things.  Here  this 
experience  teaches  us  that,  contrary  to  all 
that  occurs  in  the  affairs  of  daily  life,  it  is 
above  all  important  to  destroy.  In  every 
social  progress,  the  great  and  the  only  diffi- 
cult work  is  the  destruction  of  the  past.  We 
need  not  be  anxious  about  what  we  shall 
place  in  the  stead  of  the  ruins.  The  force 
of  things  and  of  life  will  undertake  the 
rebuilding.  It  is  but  too  eager  to  recon- 
struct; and  we  should  not  be  doing  well 

103 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

to  aid  it  in  its  precipitate  task.  Let  us, 
therefore,  not  hesitate  to  employ  our  de- 
structive powers  even  to  excess :  nine-tenths 
of  the  violence  of  our  blows  is  lost  amid 
the  inertness  of  the  mass,  even  as  the  stroke 
of  the  heaviest  hammer  is  dispersed  in  a 
large  stone  and  becomes,  so  to  speak,  imper- 
ceptible to  a  child  that  holds  the  stone  in 
its  hand. 

XI 

And  let  us  not  fear  lest  we  should  go  too 
fast.  If,  at  certain  hours,  we  seem  to  be 
rushing  at  a  headlong  and  dangerous  pace, 
this  is  to  counterbalance  unjustifiable  de- 
lays and  to  make  up  for  time  lost  during 
centuries  of  inactivity.  The  evolution  of 
our  world  continues  during  these  periods 
of  inertia ;  and  it  is  probably  necessary  that 
humanity  should  have  reached  a  certain  de- 
termined point  of  its  ascent  at  the  moment 
of  a  certain  sidereal  phenomenon,  of  a  cer- 

104 


Our  Social   Duty 

tain  obscure  crisis  of  the  planet,  or  even 
of  the  birth  of  a  certain  man.  It  is  the 
instinct  of  the  race  that  decides  these 
matters,  it  is  its  destiny  that  speaks;  and,  if 
this  instinct  or  this  destiny  be  wrong,  it  is 
not  for  us  to  interfere;  for  there  is  nothing 
above  it  or  above  ourselves  to  correct  its 
error. 


105 


OUR  ANXIOUS  MORALITY 


OUR  ANXIOUS  MORALITY 


\  X  7"E  have  arrived  at  a  stage  of  human 
*  *  evolution  that  must  be  almost  un- 
precedented in  history.  A  large  por- 
tion of  mankind — and  just  that  portion 
which  corresponds  with  the  part  that  has 
hitherto  created  the  events  of  which  we 
know  with  some  certainty — is  gradually 
forsaking  the  religion  in  which  it  has  lived 
for  nearly  twenty  centuries. 

For  a  religion  to  become  extinct  is  no  new 
thing.  It  must  have  happened  more  than 
once  in  the  night  of  time;  and  the  annal- 
ists of  the  end  of  the  Roman  Empire  make 
us  assist  at  the  death  of  paganism.  But, 
until  now,  men  passed  from  a  crumbling 

temple  into  one  that   was  building;  they 

109 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

left  one  religion  to  enter  another;  whereas 
we  are  abandoning  ours  to  go  nowhither. 
That  is  the  new  phenomenon,  with  the  un- 
known consequences,  wherein  we  live. 


II 

It  is  not  necessary  to  recall  the  fact  that 
religions  have  always,  through  their  moral- 
ity and  their  promises  extending  beyond 
the  tomb,  exercised  an  enormous  influence 
upon  men's  happiness,  although  we  have 
seen  some — and  very  important  ones,  such 
as  paganism — which  provided  neither  those 
promises  nor  any  morality  properly  so 
called.  We  will  not  speak  of  the  prom- 
ises of  our  own  religion,  for  they  are  the 
first  to  perish  with  the  faith,  whereas  we 
are  still  living  in  the  monuments  erected  by 
the  morality  born  of  that  departing  faith. 
But  we  feel  that,  in  spite  of  the  supports 
of   habit,    these   monuments   are   yawning 

no 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

over  our  heads  and  that  already,  in  many 
places,  we  are  shelterless  under  an  unfore- 
seen heaven  that  has  ceased  to  give  its 
orders.  Thus  we  are  assisting  at  the  more 
or  less  unconscious  and  feverish  elabora- 
tion of  a  morality  that  is  premature,  be- 
cause we  feel  it  to  be  indispensable,  made 
up  of  remnants  gathered  from  the  past,  of 
conclusions  borrowed  from  ordinary  good 
sense,  of  a  few  laws  half  perceived  by  science 
and,  lastly,  of  certain  extreme  intuitions  of 
our  bewildered  intelligence,  which  returns, 
by  a  circuitous  road  through  a  new  mystery, 
to  old-time  virtues  which  good  sense  alone 
is  not  sufficient  to  sustain.  It  may  be  inter- 
esting to  try  to  seize  the  first  reflexes  of  that 
elaboration.  The  hour  seems  to  be  striking 
at  which  many  will  ask  themselves  whether, 
by  continuing  to  practise  a  lofty  and  noble 
morality  in  an  environment  that  obeys  other 
laws,  they  be  not  disarming  themselves  too 

artlessly  and  playing  the  ungrateful  part  of 

in 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

dupes.  They  wish  to  know  if  the  motives 
that  still  attach  them  to  the  older  virtues  are 
not  merely  sentimental,  traditional  and 
illusionary;  and  they  seek  somewhat  vainly 
within  themselves  for  the  supports  which 
reason  may  yet  lend  them. 

Ill 

Placing  on  one  side  the  artificial  heaven 
in  which  those  who  remain  faithful  to  the 
religious  certainties  take  shelter,  we  find 
that  the  upper  currents  of  civilised  human- 
ity waver,  seemingly,  between  two  contrary 
doctrines.  For  that  matter,  these  two 
parallel,  but  inverse  doctrines  have  through 
all  time,  like  hostile  streams,  crossed  the 
fields  of  human  morality.  But  their  bed 
was  never  so  clearly,  so  rigidly  dug  out  as 
now.  That  which  in  other  days  was  no 
more  than  altruism  and  egoism  instinctive 
and  vague,  with  waves  that  often  mingled, 

112 


Our  Anxious   Morality 

has  of  late  become  altruism  and  egoism 
absolute  and  systematic.  At  their  sources, 
which  are  not  renewed,  but  shifted,  stand 
two  men  of  genius :  Tolstoi  and  Nietzsche. 
But,  as  I  have  said,  it  is  only  seemingly  that 
these  two  doctrines  divide  the  world  of 
ethics.  The  real  drama  of  the  modern 
conscience  is  not  enacted  at  either  of  these 
too  extreme  points.  Lost  in  space,  they 
mark  little  more  than  two  illusive  goals, 
which  nobody  dreams  of  attaining.  One  of 
these  doctrines  flows  violently  back  towards 
a  past  that  never  existed  in  the  shape  in 
which  that  doctrine  pictures  it;  the  other 
ripples  cruelly  towards  a  future  which  there 
is  nothing  to  foretell.  Between  these  two 
dreams,  which  envelop  and  go  beyond  it  on 
every  side,  passes  the  reality  of  which  they 
have  failed  to  take  account.  In  this  reality, 
whereof  each  of  us  carries  the  image  within 
himself,  it  behoves  us  to  study  the  forma- 
tion of  the  morality  on  which  our  latter-day 

113 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

life  rests.  Need  I  add  that,  when  employ- 
ing the  term  "morality,"  I  do  not  mean  to 
speak  of  the  practices  of  daily  existence, 
which  spring  from  custom  and  fashion,  but 
of  the  great  laws  that  determine  the  inner 
man? 

IV 

Our  morality  is  formed  in  our  conscious 
or  unconscious  reason,  which,  from  this 
point  of  view,  may  be  divided  into  three 
regions.  Right  at  the  bottom  lies  the 
heaviest,  the  densest  and  the  most  general, 
which  we  will  call  "common  sense."  A 
little  higher,  already  striving  towards  ideas 
of  immaterial  usefulness  and  enjoyment,  is 
what  might  be  called  "good  sense."  Lastly, 
at  the  top,  admitting,  but  controlling  as 
severely  as  possible  the  claims  of  the 
imagination,  of  the  feelings  and  of  all  that 
connects  our  conscious  life  with  the  uncon- 
scious and  with  the  unknown  forces  within 

114 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

and  without,  lies  the  indeterminate  part  of 
that  same  total  reason,  to  which  we  will 
give  the  name  of  "mystic  reason." 


It  is  not  necessary  to  set  forth  at  length 
the  morality  of  "common  sense,"  of  that 
good  common  sense  which  exists  in  all  of  us, 
in  the  best  and  the  worst  of  us  alike,  and 
which  springs  up  spontaneously  on  the  ruins 
of  the  religious  idea.  It  is  the  morality  of 
each  man  for  himself,  of  practical,  solid 
egoism,  of  every  material  instinct  and  en- 
joyment. He  who  starts  from  common 
sense  considers  that  he  possesses  but  one 
certainty:  his  own  life.  In  that  life,  going 
to  the  bottom  of  things,  are  but  two  real 
evils:  sickness  and  poverty;  and  but  two 
genuine  and  irreducible  boons:  health  and 
riches.  All  other  realities,  happy  or  un- 
happy, flow  from  these.  The  rest — joys  and 

"5 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

sorrows  born  of  the  feelings  and  the  pas- 
sions— is  imaginary,  because  it  depends 
upon  the  idea  which  we  form  of  Ft.  Our 
right  to  enjoyment  is  limited  only  by  the 
similar  right  of  those  who  live  at  the  same 
time  as  ourselves;  and  we  have  to  respect 
certain  laws  established  in  the  very  interest 
of  our  peaceful  enjoyment.  With  the  res- 
ervation of  these  laws,  we  admit  no  con- 
straint; and  our  conscience,  so  far  from 
trammelling  the  movements  of  our  selfish- 
ness, must,  on  the  contrary,  approve  of 
their  triumphs,  seeing  that  these  triumphs 
are  what  is  most  in  accordance  with  the  in- 
stinctive and  logical  duties  of  life. 

There  we  have  the  first  stratum,  the  first 
state  of  all  natural  morality.  It  is  a  state 
beyond  which  many  men,  after  the  complete 
death  of  the  religious  ideas,  will  never  go. 


116 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

VI 

As  for  "good  sense,"  which  is  a  little  less 
material,  a  little  less  animal,  it  looks  at 
things  from  a  slightly  higher  standpoint 
and,  consequently,  sees  a  little  farther.  It 
soon  perceives  that  niggardly  common  sense 
leads  an  obscure,  confined  and  wretched  life 
in  its  shell.  It  observes  that  man  is  no  more 
able  than  the  bee  to  remain  solitary  and  that 
the  life  which  he  shares  with  his  fellows, 
in  order  to  expand  freely  and  completely, 
cannot  be  reduced  to  an  unjust  and  pitiless 
struggle  or  to  a  mere  exchange  of  services 
grudgingly  rewarded.  In  its  relations  to- 
wards others,  it  still  makes  selfishness  its 
starting-point;  but  this  selfishness  is  no 
longer  purely  material.  It  still  considers 
utility,  but  already  admits  its  spiritual  or 
sentimental  side.  It  knows  joys  and  sor- 
rows, affections  and  antipathies,  the  objects 
of   which   may   exist   in   the    imagination. 

117 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

Thus  understood  and  capable  of  rising  to 
a  certain  height  above  the  conclusions  of 
material  logic — without  losing  sight  of  its 
interest — it  appears  beyond  the  reach  of 
every  objection.  It  flatters  itself  that  it  is 
in  solid  occupation  of  all  reason's  summits. 
It  even  makes  a  few  concessions  to  that 
which  does  not  perceptibly  fall  within  the 
latter's  domain,  I  mean  to  the  passions,  the 
feelings  and  all  the  unexplained  things  that 
surround  them.  It  must  needs  make  these 
concessions,  for,  if  not,  the  gloomy  caves  in 
which  it  would  shut  itself  would  be  no  more 
habitable  than  those  in  which  dull  com- 
mon sense  leads  its  stupefied  existence.  But 
these  very  concessions  call  attention  to  the 
unlawfulness  of  its  claims  to  busy  itself 
with  morality  once  that  the  latter  has  gone 
beyond  the  ordinary  practices  of  daily  life. 


118 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

VII 

Indeed,  what  can  there  be  in  common  be- 
tween good  sense  and  the  stoical  idea  of 
duty,  for  instance?  They  inhabit  two  dif- 
ferent and  almostuncommunicating  regions. 
Good  sense,  when  it  claims  alone  to  pro- 
mulgate the  laws  that  form  the  inner  man, 
ought  to  meet  with  the  same  resistance  and 
the  same  obstacles  as  those  against  which  it 
strikes  in  one  of  the  few  regions  which  it 
has  not  yet  reduced  to  slavery :  the  region  of 
aesthetics.  Here  it  is  very  happily  consulted 
on  all  that  concerns  the  starting-point  and 
certain  great  lines,  but  most  imperiously 
ordered  to  hold  its  peace  so  soon  as  the 
achievement  and  the  supreme  and  mysteri- 
ous beauty  of  the  work  come  into  question. 
But,  whereas  in  aesthetics  it  resigns  itself 
easily  enough  to  silence,  in  morality  it 
wishes  to  lord  over  all  things.    It  were  well, 

therefore,  to  put  it  back  once  for  all  into 

119 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

its  lawful  place   in  the  generality  of  the 
faculties  that  makes  up  our  human  person. 

VIII 

One  of  the  features  of  our  time  is  the 
ever-increasing  and  almost  exclusive  confi- 
dence which  we  place  in  those  parts  of  our 
intelligence  which  we  have  just  described  as 
common  sense  and  good  sense.  It  was  not 
always  thus.  Formerly,  man  based  upon 
good  sense  only  a  somewhat  restricted  and 
the  vulgarest  portion  of  his  life.  The  rest 
had  its  foundations  in  other  regions  of  our 
mind,  notably  in  the  imagination.  The  relig- 
ions, for  instance,  and  with  them  the 
brightest  part  of  the  morality  of  which  they 
are  the  chief  sources,  always  rose  up  at  a 
great  distance  from  the  tiny  limits  of  good 
sense.  This  was  excessive;  but  the  ques- 
tion is  whether  the  present  contrary  excess 
is  not  as  blind.  The  enormous  strides  made 
in  the  practice  of  our  life  by  certain  me- 

120 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

chanical  and  scientific  laws  make  us  allow  to 
good  sense  a  preponderance  to  which  it 
remains  to  be  proved  that  this  same  good 
sense  is  entitled.  The  apparently  incontest- 
able, yet  perhaps  illusory  logic  of  certain 
phenomena  with  which  we  believe  ourselves 
acquainted  makes  us  forget  the  possible 
illogicality  of  millions  of  other  phenomena 
which  we  do  not  yet  know.  Nothing 
assures  us  that  the  universe  obeys  the  laws 
of  human  logic.  It  would  even  be  surpris- 
ing if  this  were  so;  for  the  laws  of 
our  good  sense  are  the  fruit  of  an  experi- 
ence which  is  insignificant  when  we  compare 
it  with  what  we  do  not  know.  "There  is 
no  effect  without  a  cause,"  says  our  good 
sense,  to  take  the  tritest  instance.  Yes, 
in  the  little  circle  of  our  material  life,  that 
is  undeniable  and  all-sufficing.  But,  so 
soon  as  we  emerge  from  this  infinitesimal 
circle,  the  saying  no  longer  answers  to  any- 
thing, seeing  that  the  notions  of  cause  and 


121 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

effect  are  alike  unknowable  in  a  world 
where  all  is  unknown.  Now  our  life,  from 
the  moment  when  it  raises  itself  a  little,  is 
constantly  issuing  from  the  small  material 
and  experimental  circle  and,  consequently, 
from  the  domain  of  good  sense.  Even  in 
the  visible  world  which  serves  it  for  a  model 
in  our  mind,  we  do  not  observe  that  it 
reigns  undivided.  Around  us,  in  her  most 
constant  and  most  familiar  manifestations, 
nature  very  rarely  acts  according  to  good 
sense.  What  could  be  more  senseless  than 
her  waste  of  existences?  What  more  un- 
reasonable than  those  billions  of  germs 
blindly  squandered  to  achieve  the  chance 
birth  of  a  single  being?  What  more  illog- 
ical than  the  untold  and  useless  compli- 
cation of  her  means  (as,  for  instance,  in 
the  life  of  certain  parasites  and  the  im- 
pregnation of  flowers  by  insects)  to  attain 
the  simplest  ends?  What  madder  than 
those  thousands  of  worlds  which  perish  in 

122 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

space  without  accomplishing  a  single  work? 
All  this  goes  beyond  our  good  sense  and 
shows  it  that  it  is  not  in  agreement  with 
general  life  and  that  it  is  almost  isolated  in 
the  universe.  Needs  must  it  argue  against 
itself  and  recognise  that  we  shall  not  give 
it  in  our  life,  which  is  not  isolated,  the 
preponderant  place  to  which  it  aspires.  This 
is  not  to  say  that  we  will  abandon  it  where 
it  is  of  use  to  us;  but  it  is  well  to  know 
that  good  sense  cannot  suffice  for  every- 
thing, being  itself  almost  nothing.  Even  as 
there  exists  without  ourselves  a  world  that 
goes  beyond  it,  so  there  exists  within  our- 
selves another  that  exceeds  it.  It  is  in  its 
place  and  performs  a  humble  and  blessed 
work  in  its  little  village;  but  it  must  not  aim 
at  becoming  the  master  of  the  great  cities 
and  the  sovereign  of  the  mountains  and  the 
seas.  Now  the  great  cities,  the  seas  and  the 
mountains  occupy  infinitely  more  space 
within  us  than  the  little  village  of  our  prac- 

123 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

tical  existence,  which  is  the  necessary  agree- 
ment upon  a  small  number  of  inferior, 
sometimes  doubtful,  but  indispensable 
truths  and  nothing  more.  It  is  a  bond 
rather  than  a  support.  We  must  remember 
that  nearly  all  our  progress  has  been  made 
in  despite  of  the  sarcasms  and  curses  with 
which  good  sense  has  received  the  unrea- 
sonable, but  fertile  hypotheses  of  the  imag- 
ination. Amid  the  moving  and  eternal 
waves  of  a  boundless  universe,  let  us  not, 
therefore,  hold  fast  to  our  good  sense  as 
though  to  the  one  rock  of  salvation.  Bound 
to  that  rock,  immovable  through  every  age 
and  every  civilisation,  we  should  do  nothing 
of  that  which  we  ought  to  do,  become  noth- 
ing of  that  which  we  may  perhaps  become. 

IX 

Until  the  present  time,  this  question  of  a 

morality  limited  by  good  sense  possessed  no 

124 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

great  importance.  It  did  not  stay  the  de- 
velopment of  certain  aspirations,  of  certain 
forces  that  have  always  been  considered  the 
finest  and  noblest  to  be  found  in  man.  The 
religions  completed  the  interrupted  work. 
To-day,  feeling  the  danger  of  its  limita- 
tions, the  morality  of  good  sense,  which 
would  like  to  become  the  general  morality, 
seeks  to  extend  itself  as  far  as  possible  in 
the  direction  of  justice  and  generosity,  to 
find,  in  a  superior  interest,  reasons  for  being 
disinterested,  in  order  to  fill  up  a  portion  of 
the  abyss  that  separates  it  from  those  inde- 
structible forces  and  aspirations.  But  there 
are  points  which  it  is  unable  to  exceed  with- 
out denying  itself,  without  destroying  itself 
at  its  very  source.  After  these  points,  which 
are  just  those  at  which  the  great  useless 
virtues  begin,  what  guide  remains  to  us? 


125 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

X 

We  shall  see  presently  if  it  be  possible  to 
answer  this  question.  But,  even  admitting 
that  there  is  not,  that  there  never  can  be  a 
guide  beyond  the  plains  of  the  morality  of 
good  sense,  this  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
be  anxious  touching  the  moral  future  of 
humanity.  Man  is  so  essentially,  so  neces- 
sarily a  moral  being  that,  when  he  denies 
the  existence  of  all  morality,  that  very  de- 
nial already  becomes  the  foundation  of  a 
new  morality.  Mankind,  at  a  pinch,  can  do 
without  a  guide.  It  proceeds  a  little  more 
slowly,  but  almost  as  surely  through  the 
darkness  which  no  one  lights.  It  carries 
within  itself  the  light  whose  flame  is  blown 
to  and  fro,  but  incessantly  revived  by  the 
storms.  It  is,  so  to  speak,  independent  of 
the  ideas  which  imagine  that  they  lead  it. 
Moreover,  it  is  interesting  and  easy  to 
establish  that  these  periodical  ideas  have 

126 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

always  had  but  little  influence  on  the  mass 
of  good  and  evil  that  is  done  in  the  world. 
The  only  thing  that  has  a  real  influence  is 
the  spiritual  wave  which  carries  us,  which 
has  its  ebbs  and  flows,  but  which  seems 
slowly  to  overtake  and  conquer  we  know 
not  what  in  space.  More  important  than 
the  idea  is  the  time  that  lapses  around  it, 
is  the  development  of  a  civilisation  which 
is  only  the  level  of  the  general  intelli- 
gence at  a  given  moment  in  history.  If  a 
religion  were  revealed  to  us  to-morrow, 
proving,  scientifically  and  with  absolute 
certainty,  that  every  act  of  goodness,  of 
self-sacrifice,  of  heroism,  of  inward  nobility 
would  bring  us,  immediately  after  our 
death,  an  indubitable  and  unimaginable  re- 
ward, I  doubt  whether  the  proportion  of 
good  and  evil,  of  virtues  and  vices  amid 
which  we  live  would  undergo  an  appreciable 
change.  Would  you  have  a  convincing  ex- 
ample?    In  the  middle  ages  there  were 

127 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

moments  when  faith  was  absolute  and  ob- 
truded itself  with  a  certainty  that  corre- 
sponds exactly  with  our  scientific  certainties. 
The  rewards  promised  for  well-doing,  the 
punishments  threatening  evil  were,  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  men  of  that  time,  as  tan- 
gible, so  to  speak,  as  would  be  those  of  the 
revelation  of  which  I  spoke  above.  Never- 
theless, we  do  not  see  that  the  average  of 
goodness  was  raised.  A  few  saints  sacrificed 
themselves  for  their  brothers,  carried  cer- 
tain virtues,  selected  from  among  the  more 
contestable,  to  the  pitch  of  heroism;  but  the 
bulk  of  men  continued  to  deceive  one  an- 
other, to  lie,  to  fornicate,  to  steal,  to  be 
guilty  of  envy,  to  commit  murder.  The 
mean  of  the  vices  was  no  lower  than  that  of 
to-day.  On  the  contrary,  life  was  incom- 
parably harsher,  more  cruel  and  more  un- 
just, because  the  low-water  mark  of  the 
general  intelligence  was  less  high. 


128 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

XI 

Let  us  return  to  our  positivist,  utilitarian, 
materialist  or  rational  morality,  which  we 
have  called  the  morality  of  common  sense 
and  good  sense.  It  is  certain  that,  beside 
the  latter,  there  has  always  been,  there  still 
is  another  which  embraces  all  that  extends 
from  the  virtues  of  good  sense,  which  are 
necessary  to  our  material  and  spiritual  hap- 
piness, to  the  infinity  of  heroism,  of  self- 
sacrifice,  of  goodness,  of  love,  of  inward 
probity  and  dignity.  It  is  certain  that  the 
morality  of  good  sense,  although  it  may  go 
pretty  far  in  some  directions,  such  as  that 
of  altruism,  for  instance,  will  always  be  a 
little  wanting  in  nobility,  in  disinterested- 
ness and,  above  all,  in  I  know  not  what 
faculties  that  are  capable  of  bringing  it  into 
direct  relations  with  the  uncontested  mys- 
tery of  life. 

If  it  be  probable,  as  we  have  hinted,  that 

129 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

our  good  sense  answers  only  to  an  infini- 
tesimal portion  of  the  phenomena,  the  truths 
and  the  laws  of  nature,  if  it  isolate  us  some- 
what piteously  in  this  world,  we  have  within 
us  other  faculties  which  are  marvellously 
adapted  to  the  unknown  parts  of  the  uni- 
verse and  which  seem  to  have  been  given  to 
us  expressly  to  prepare  us,  if  not  to  under- 
stand them,  at  least  to  admit  them  and  to 
undergo  their  great  presentiments.  These 
are  imagination  and  the  mystic  summit  of 
our  reason.  Do  and  say  what  we  may,  we 
have  never  been,  we  are  not  yet  a  sort  of 
purely  logical  animal.  There  is  in  us,  above 
the  reasoning  portion  of  our  reason,  a  whole 
region  which  answers  to  something  differ- 
ent, which  is  preparing  for  the  surprises  of 
the  future,  which  is  awaiting  the  events  of 
the  unknown.  This  part  of  our  intelligence, 
which  I  will  call  imagination  or  "mystic 
reason,"  went  before  us  in  times  when,  so 
to  speak,  we  knew  nothing  of  the  laws  of 

130 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

nature,  outran  our  imperfect  attainments 
and  made  us  live,  morally,  socially  and 
sentimentally,  on  a  level  very  much  superior 
to  that  of  those  attainments.  At  the  pres- 
ent time,  when  we  have  made  the  latter 
take  a  few  steps  forward  in  the  darkness 
and  when,  in  the  hundred  years  that  have 
just  elapsed,  we  have  unravelled  more  chaos 
than  in  a  thousand  previous  centuries,  at  the 
present  time,  when  our  material  life  seems 
on  the  point  of  becoming  fixed  and  assured, 
is  this  a  reason  why  these  two  faculties 
should  cease  to  go  ahead  of  us  or  why  they 
should  retrocede  towards  good  sense?  Are 
there  not,  on  the  contrary,  very  serious 
reasons  for  urging  them  forwards,  so  as 
to  restore  the  normal  distances  and  their 
traditional  lead?  Is  it  right  that  we  should 
lose  confidence  in  them?  Is  it  possible  to 
say  that  they  have  hindered  any  form  of 
human  progress?  Perhaps  they  have  de- 
ceived us  more  than  once;  but  their  fruitful 

131 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

errors,  by  forcing  us  to  march  onwards, 
have  revealed  to  us,  in  the  straying,  more 
truths  than  our  over-timid  good  sense  would 
ever  have  lighted  upon  by  marking  time. 
The  most  welcome  discoveries,  in  biology, 
in  chemistry,  in  medicine,  in  physics,  almost 
all  had  their  starting-point  in  an  hypothesis 
supplied  by  imagination  or  mystic  reason, 
an  hypothesis  which  the  experiments  of 
good  sense  have  confirmed,  but  which,  given 
as  it  is  to  narrow  methods,  it  would  never 
have  foreseen. 

XII 

In  the  exact  sciences,  in  which  it  seems  as 
if  they  ought  to  be  first  dethroned,  imagina- 
tion and  mystic  reason  (that  is  to  say  that 
part  of  our  reason  which  extends  above 
good  sense,  draws  no  conclusions  and  plays 
an  enormous  and  lawful  part  in  the  hesita- 
tions and  possibilities  of  the  unknown) ,  our 
imagination,  I  was  saying,  and  our  mystic 

132 


Our  Anxious   Morality 

reason  again  occupy  a  place  of  honour.  In 
aesthetics,  they  reign  almost  undivided. 
Why  should  silence  be  laid  upon  them  in 
our  morality,  which  fills  an  intermediary 
space  between  the  exact  sciences  and  aesthet- 
ics? There  is  no  concealing  the  fact:  if 
they  cease  to  come  to  the  assistance  of  good 
sense,  if  they  give  up  prolonging  its  work, 
the  whole  summit  of  our  morality  falls  in 
abruptly.  Starting  from  a  certain  line  which 
is  exceeded  by  the  heroes,  the  great  wise 
men  and  even  by  the  majority  of  mere  good 
men,  all  the  height  of  our  morality  is  the 
fruit  of  our  imagination  and  belongs  to 
mystic  reason.  The  ideal  man,  as  formed 
by  the  most  enlightened  and  the  most  ex- 
tensive good  sense,  does  not  yet  correspond, 
does  not  even  correspond  in  the  slightest 
degree  with  the  ideal  man  of  our  imagina- 
tion. The  latter  is  infinitely  higher,  more 
generous,  nobler,  more  disinterested,  more 
capable  of  love,  of  self-abnegation,  of  devo- 

133 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

tion  and  of  essential  sacrifices.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  knowing  which  of  the  two  is  right  or 
wrong,  which  has  the  right  of  surviving. 
Or,  rather,  it  is  a  question  of  knowing 
whether  some  new  fact  permit  us  to  make 
this  demand  and  to  bring  into  question  the 
high  traditions  of  human  morality. 

XIII 

Where  shall  we  find  this  new  fact? 
Among  all  the  revelations  which  science 
has  lately  given  us,  is  there  a  single  one 
that  authorises  us  to  take  anything  from  the 
ideal  set  before  us  by  Marcus  Aurelius,  for 
instance?  Does  the  least  sign,  the  least 
indication,  the  least  presentiment  arouse  a 
suspicion  that  the  primitive  ideas  which 
hitherto  have  guided  the  just  man  will  have 
to  change  their  direction  and  that  the  road 
of  human  good-will  is  a  false  road?  What 
discovery  tells  us  that  it  is  time  to  destroy 

134 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

in  our  conscience  all  that  goes  beyond  strict 
justice,  that  is  to  say  those  unnamed  virtues 
which,  beyond  those  necessary  to  social  life, 
appear  to  be  weaknesses  and  yet  turn  the 
simple  decent  man  into  the  real  and  pro- 
found good  man? 

Those  virtues,  we  shall  be  told,  and  a  host 
of  others  that  have  always  formed  the  per- 
fume of  great  souls,  those  virtues  would 
doubtless  be  in  their  places  in  a  world 
wherein  the  struggle  for  life  was  no  longer 
so  necessary  as  it  is  now  on  a  planet  on 
which  the  evolution  of  species  is  not  yet 
finished.  Meanwhile,  most  of  them  disarm 
those  who  practise  them  as  against  those 
who  do  not  practise  them.  They  trammel 
the  development  of  those  who  ought  to  be 
the  best  to  the  advantage  of  the  less  good. 
They  oppose  an  excellent,  but  human  and 
particular  ideal  to  the  general  ideal  of  life; 
and  this  more  restricted  ideal  is  necessarily 
vanquished  beforehand. 

135 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

The  objection  is  a  specious  one.  First  of 
all,  this  so-called  discovery  of  the  struggle 
for  life,  in  which  men  seek  the  source  of  a 
new  morality,  is  at  bottom  but  a  discovery 
of  words.  It  is  not  enough  to  give  an  un- 
accustomed name  to  an  immemorial  law  in 
order  to  render  lawful  a  radical  deviation 
from  the  human  ideal.  The  struggle  for 
life  has  existed  since  the  existence  of  our 
planet;  and  not  one  of  its  consequences  was 
modified,  not  one  of  its  riddles  solved  on 
the  day  when  men  thought  that  they  had 
taken  cognizance  of  it  by  adorning  it  with 
an  appellation  which  a  whim  of  the  vocab- 
ulary will  change,  perhaps,  before  fifty 
years  have  passed.  Next,  it  behoves  us  to 
admit  that,  if  these  virtues  sometimes  dis- 
arm us  in  the  face  of  those  who  do  not  know 
them,  they  disarm  us  only  in  very  con- 
temptible combats.  Certainly,  the  over- 
scrupulous man  will  be  deceived  by  him  who 
is  unscrupulous,  the  too-loving,  over-indul- 

136 


Our  Anxious   Morality 

gent,  too-devoted  man  will  suiter  at  the 
hands  of  him  who  is  less  so;  but  can  this 
be  called  a  victory  of  the  second  over  the 
first?  In  what  does  this  defeat  strike  at 
the  inner  life  of  the  better  man?  He  will 
lose  some  material  advantage  by  it;  but  he 
would  lose  much  more  by  leaving  unculti- 
vated all  the  region  that  extends  beyond  the 
morality  of  good  sense.  The  man  who  en- 
riches his  sensibility  enriches  his  intelli- 
gence; and  these  are  the  properly  human 
forces  that  always  end  by  having  the  last 
word. 

XIV 

Moreover,  if  a  few  general  thoughts  suc- 
ceed in  emerging  from  the  chaos  of  half- 
discoveries,  of  half-truths  that  beguile  the 
mind  of  modern  man,  does  not  one  of  these 
thoughts  assert  that  nature  has  given  to 
every  species  of  living  being  all  the  instincts 
necessary   for   the   accomplishment   of    its 

137 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

destinies?  And  has  she  not,  at  all  times, 
given  us  a  moral  ideal  which,  in  the  most 
primitive  savage  and  the  most  refined 
civilised  man  alike,  preserves  a  propor- 
tional and  perceptibly  equal  distance  ahead 
of  the  conclusions  of  good  sense  ?  Is  not  the 
savage,  just  as,  in  a  higher  sphere,  the 
civilised  man,  as  a  rule  infinitely  more 
generous,  more  loyal,  more  true  to  his 
word  than  the  interest  and  experience  of 
his  wretched  life  advise?  Is  it  not  thanks 
to  this  instinctive  ideal  that  we  live  in  an 
environment  in  which,  despite  the  practical 
preponderance  of  evil,  excused  by  the  harsh 
necessities  of  existence,  the  idea  of  goodness 
and  justice  reigns  more  and  more  supreme 
and  in  which  the  public  conscience,  which  is 
the  perceptible  and  general  form  of  that 
ideal,  becomes  more  and  more  powerful 
and  certain  of  itself? 


138 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

XV 

It  is  fitting  that  we  should  come  to  an 
understanding,  once  for  all,  on  the  rights  of 
our  instincts.  We  no  longer  allow  the 
rights  of  any  of  our  lower  instincts  to  be 
contested.  We  know  how  to  justify  and  to 
ennoble  them  by  attaching  them  to  some 
great  law  of  nature.  Why  should  not 
certain  more  elevated  instincts,  quite  as 
incontestable  as  those  which  crawl  at  the 
bottom  of  our  senses,  enjoy  the  same  pre- 
rogatives ?  Must  they  be  denied,  suspected 
or  treated  as  illusions  because  they  are  not 
related  to  the  two  or  three  primitive  neces- 
sities of  animal  life?  Once  that  they  exist, 
is  it  not  probable  that  they  are  as  indispen- 
sable as  the  others  to  the  accomplishment  of 
a  destiny  concerning  which  we  do  not 
know  what  is  useful  or  useless  to  it,  seeing 
that  we  do  not  know  its  objects?  And  is  it 
not,  then,  the  duty  of  our  good  sense,  their 

139 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

innate  enemy,  to  help  them,  to  encourage 
them  and,  finally,  to  confess  to  itself  that 
certain  parts  of  our  life  are  beyond  its 
sphere? 

XVI 

It  is  our  duty,  above  all,  to  strive  to 
develop  within  ourselves  the  specific  char- 
acteristics of  the  class  of  living  being  to 
which  we  belong  and,  by  preference,  those 
which  distinguish  us  the  most  from  all  the 
other  phenomena  of  the  life  around  us. 
Among  these  characteristics,  one  of  the 
most  notorious  is,  perhaps,  not  so  much  our 
intelligence  as  our  moral  aspirations.  One 
portion  of  these  aspirations  emanates  from 
our  intelligence;  but  another  has  always 
gone  before  it,  has  always  appeared  inde- 
pendent of  it  and,  finding  no  visible  roots 
in  it,  has  sought  elsewhere,  no  matter 
where,  but  especially  in  the  religions  the 
explanation   of  a  mysterious  instinct  that 

140 


Our  Anxious  Morality- 
urged  it  to  go  farther.  To-day,  when  the 
religions  are  no  longer  qualified  to  explain 
anything,  the  fact  none  the  less  remains; 
and  I  do  not  think  that  we  have  the  right 
to  suppress  with  a  stroke  of  the  pen  a 
whole  region  of  our  inner  existence  with 
the  sole  object  of  gratifying  the  reasoning 
organs  of  our  judgment.  Besides,  all  things 
hang  together  and  help  one  another,  even 
those  which  seem  to  contend  with  one 
another,  in  the  mystery  of  man's  instincts, 
faculties  and  aspirations.  Our  intelligence 
derives  an  immediate  profit  from  the  sacri- 
fices which  it  makes  to  our  imagination 
when  the  latter  caresses  an  ideal  which  the 
former  does  not  think  consonant  with  the 
realities  of  life.  Our  intelligence  has  for 
some  years  been  too  prone  to  believe  that 
it  is  able  to  suffice  for  itself.  It  needs  all 
our  forces,  all  our  feelings,  all  our  passions, 
all  our  unconsciousness,  all  that  is  with  it 
and  all  that  is  against  it,  in  order  to  spread 

141 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

and  flourish  in  life.  But  the  nutriment 
which  is  necessary  to  it  above  any  other  is 
the  great  anxieties,  the  grave  sufferings,  the 
noble  joys  of  our  heart.  These  truly  are 
to  it  what  the  water  from  heaven  is  to  the 
lilies,  the  dew  of  the  morning  to  the  roses. 
It  is  well  that  it  should  know  how  to  stoop 
and  pass  in  silence  before  certain  desires  and 
certain  dreams  of  that  heart  which  it  does 
not  always  understand,  but  which  contains 
a  light  that  has  more  than  once  led  it 
towards  truths  which  it  sought  in  vain  at 
the  extreme  points  of  its  thoughts. 

XVII 

We  are  an  indivisible  spiritual  whole; 
and  it  is  only  for  the  needs  of  the  spoken 
or  written  word  that  we  are  able,  when  we 
study  them,  to  separate  the  thoughts  of  our 
intelligence  from  the  passions  and  senti- 
ments of  our  heart.    Every  man  is  more  or 

142 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

less  the  victim  of  this  illusory  division.  He 
says  to  himself,  in  his  youth,  that  he  will 
see  into  it  more  clearly  when  he  is  older. 
He  imagines  that  his  passions,  even  the 
most  generous  of  them,  obscure  and  dis- 
turb his  thought;  and  he  asks  himself, 
with  I  know  not  what  hope,  how  far  that 
thought  will  go  when  it  reigns  alone  over 
his  lulled  dreams  and  senses.  And  old 
age  comes :  the  intelligence  is  clear,  but 
has  no  object  remaining.  It  has  nothing 
left  to  do,  it  works  in  the  void.  And  it 
is  thus  that,  in  the  domains  where  the 
results  of  that  division  are  the  most  visible, 
we  observe  that,  in  general,  the  work  of 
old  age  is  not  equal  to  that  of  youth  or  of 
mature  age,  which,  nevertheless,  has  much 
less  experience  and  knows  many  fewer 
things,  but  which  has  not  yet  stifled  the 
mysterious  forces  foreign  to  our  intelli- 
gence. 


143 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

XVIII 

If  we  be  now  asked  which,  when  all  is 
said,  are  the  precepts  of  that  lofty  morality 
whereof  we  have  spoken  without  defining  it, 
we  will  reply  that  it  presupposes  a  state  of 
soul  or  of  heart  rather  than  a  code  of 
strictly-formulated  precepts.  What  consti- 
tutes its  essence  is  the  sincere  and  strong 
wish  to  form  within  ourselves  a  powerful 
idea  of  justice  and  of  love  that  always  rises 
above  that  formed  by  the  clearest  and  most 
generous  portions  of  our  intelligence.  One 
could  mention  a  thousand  examples :  I  will 
take  one  only,  that  which  is  at  the  centre  of 
all  our  anxieties  and  beside  which  all  the 
rest  has  no  importance,  that  which,  when  we 
thus  speak  of  lofty  and  noble  morality  and 
perfect  virtues,  cross-examines  us  as  culprits 
and  asks  us  bluntly,  "And  when  do  you 
intend  to  put  a  stop  to  the  injustice  in 
which  you  live?" 

144 


Our  Anxious  Morality- 
Yes,  all  of  us  who  possess  more  than 
the  others,  we  who  are  more  or  less  rich  as 
against  those  who  are  quite  poor,  we  all  live 
in  the  midst  of  an  injustice  deeper  than  that 
which  arises  from  the  abuse  of  brute 
strength,  because  we  abuse  a  strength  which 
is  not  even  real.  Our  reason  deplores  this 
injustice,  but  explains  it,  excuses  it  and  de- 
clares it  to  be  inevitable.  It  shows  us  that 
it  is  impossible  to  apply  to  it  the  swift 
and  efficacious  remedy  which  our  equity 
seeks;  that  any  too  radical  remedy  would 
carry  with  it  evils  more  cruel  and  more 
desperate  than  those  which  it  pretended  to 
cure;  it  proves  to  us,  in  short,  that  this 
injustice  is  organic,  essential  and  in  con- 
formity with  all  the  laws  of  nature.  Our 
reason  is  perhaps  right;  but  what  is  much 
more  deeply,  much  more  surely  right  is  our 
ideal  of  justice,  which  proclaims  that  our 
reason  is  wrong.  Even  when  it  is  not 
acting,   it  is  well,  if  not  for  the  present, 

145 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

at  least  for  the  future,  that  this  ideal  should 
have  a  quick  sense  of  iniquity;  and,  if  it 
no  longer  involves  renunciations  or  heroic 
sacrifices,  this  is  not  because  it  is  less  noble 
or  less  sure  than  the  ideal  of  the  best  re- 
ligions, but  because  it  promises  no  other 
rewards  than  those  of  duty  accomplished 
and  because  these  rewards  are  just  those 
which  hitherto  only  a  few  heroes  have 
understood  and  which  the  great  presenti- 
ments that  hover  beyond  our  intelligence 
are  seeking  to  make  us  understand. 

XIX 

In  reality,  we  need  so  few  precepts  I  .  .  . 
Perhaps  three  or  four,  at  the  utmost  five 
or  six,  which  a  child  could  give  us.  We 
must,  before  all,  understand  them;  and  "to 
understand,"  as  we  take  it,  is  hardly,  as 
a  rule,  the  beginning  of  the  life  of  an  ideal. 
If  that  were  enough,  all  our  intelligences 
and  all  our  characters  would  be  equal;  for 

146 


Our  Anxious   Morality 

every  man  of  even  a  very  mean  intelligence 
is  apt  to  understand,  at  this  first  stage,  all 
that  is  explained  to  him  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness. There  are  as  many  manners  and  as 
many  stages  in  the  manners  of  understand- 
ing a  truth  as  there  are  minds  that  think 
that  they  understand  it.  If  I  prove,  for 
instance,  to  an  intelligent  vain  man  how 
childish  is  his  vanity,  to  an  egoist  capable 
of  comprehension  how  unreasonable  and 
hateful  is  his  egoism,  they  will  readily 
agree,  they  will  even  amplify  what  I  have 
said.  There  is,  therefore,  no  doubt  that 
they  have  understood;  but  it  is  very  nearly 
certain  that  they  will  continue  to  act  as 
though  not  so  much  as  the  extremity  of 
one  of  the  truths  which  they  have  just 
admitted  had  grazed  their  brain.  Whereas, 
in  another  man,  these  truths,  covered  with 
the  same  words,  will  one  evening  suddenly 
enter  and  penetrate,  through  his  thoughts, 
to  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart,  upsetting 

147 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

his  existence,  displacing  every  axis,  every 
lever,  every  joy,  every  sorrow,  every  object 
of  his  activity.  He  has  understood  the 
sense  of  the  word  "to  understand,"  for 
we  cannot  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have 
understood  a  truth  until  it  is  impossible 
for  us  not  to  shape  our  lives  in  accordance 
with  it. 

XX 

To  return  to  and  resume  the  central  idea 
of  all  this,  let  us  recognise  that  it  is  neces- 
sary to  maintain  the  equilibrium  between 
what  we  have  called  good  sense  and  the 
other  faculties  and  sentiments  of  our  life. 
Contrary  to  our  former  wont,  we  are  nowa- 
days too  much  inclined  to  shatter  this 
equilibrium  in  favour  of  good  sense. 
Certainly,  good  sense  has  the  right  to  con- 
trol more  strictly  than  ever  all  that  other 
forces  bring  to  it,  all  that  goes  beyond  the 
practical  conclusions  of  its  reasoning;  but 

148 


Our  Anxious   Morality 

it  cannot  prevent  them  from  acting  until 
it  has  acquired  the  certainty  that  they  are 
deceiving  it;  and  it  owes  to  itself,  to  the 
respect  of  its  own  laws  the  duty  of  being 
more  and  more  circumspect  in  asserting 
that  certainty.  Now,  though  it  may  have 
acquired  the  conviction  that  those  forces 
have  committed  a  mistake  in  ascribing  to  a 
divine  and  precise  will  and  injunctions  the 
majority  of  the  phenomena  manifested 
within  themselves;  though  it  be  its  duty  to 
redress  the  accessory  errors  that  proceed 
from  this  central  error,  by  eliminating,  for 
instance,  from  our  moral  ideal  a  host  of 
sterile  and  dangerous  virtues,  it  could  never 
deny  that  these  same  phenomena  subsist, 
whether  they  emanate  from  a  superior  in- 
stinct, from  the  life  of  the  species,  infinitely 
more  powerful  within  us  than  the  life  of  the 
individual,  or  from  any  other  unintelligible 
source.  In  any  case,  it  could  not  treat  them 
as  illusions;  for,  at  that  rate,  we  might  ask 

149 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

ourselves  whether  this  supreme  judge,  out- 
flanked and  contradicted  on  every  side  by 
the  genius  of  nature  and  the  inconceivable 
laws  of  the  universe,  be  not  itself  more 
illusive  than  the  illusions  which  it  aspires 
to  destroy. 

XXI 

For  all  that  touches  upon  our  moral  life, 
we  still  have  the  choice  of  our  illusions : 
good  sense  itself,  that  is  to  say  the  scientific 
spirit,  is  obliged  to  admit  as  much.  Where- 
fore, taking  one  illusion  with  another,  let  us 
welcome  those  from  above  rather  than  those 
from  below.  The  former,  after  all,  have 
brought  us  to  the  stage  at  which  we  are; 
and,  when  we  look  back  upon  our  starting- 
point,  the  dreadful  cave  of  prehistoric  man, 
we  owe  them  a  certain  gratitude.  The 
latter  illusions,  those  of  the  inferior  regions, 
that  is  to  say  of  good  sense,  have  given 
proofs  of  their  capacity  hitherto  only  when 

150 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

accompanied  and  supported  by  the  former. 
They  have  not  yet  walked  alone.  They  are 
taking  their  first  steps  in  the  dark.  They 
are  leading  us,  they  say,  to  a  regular, 
assured,  measured,  exactly-weighed  state  of 
well-being,  to  the  conquest  of  matter.  Be 
it  so :  they  have  charge  of  this  kind  of  hap- 
piness. But  let  them  not  pretend  that,  to 
attain  it,  it  is  necessary  to  fling  overboard, 
like  a  dangerous  cargo,  all  that  hitherto 
formed  the  heroic,  cloud-topped,  indefatig- 
able, adventurous  energy  of  our  conscience. 
Leave  us  a  few  fancy  virtues.  Allow  a  little 
space  for  our  fraternal  sentiments.  It  is 
very  possible  that  these  virtues  and  senti- 
ments, which  are  not  strictly  indispensable 
to  the  just  man  of  to-day,  are  the  roots  of 
all  that  will  blossom  when  man  shall  have 
accomplished  the  hardest  stage  of  the 
"struggle  for  life."  Also,  we  must  keep  a 
few  sumptuary  virtues  in  reserve,  in  order 
to    replace    those    which   we    abandon    as 

151 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

useless;  for  our  conscience  has  need  of 
exercise  and  nourishment.  Already  we 
have  thrown  off  a  number  of  constraints 
which  were  assuredly  hurtful,  but  which  at 
least  kept  up  the  activity  of  our  inner  life. 
We  are  no  longer  chaste,  since  we  have 
recognised  that  the  work  of  the  flesh,  cursed 
for  twenty  centuries,  is  natural  and  lawful. 
We  no  longer  go  out  in  search  of  resigna- 
tion, of  mortification,  of  sacrifice;  we  are  no 
longer  lowly  in  heart  or  poor  in  spirit.  All 
this  is  very  lawful,  seeing  that  these  virtues 
depended  on  a  religion  which  is  retiring; 
but  it  is  not  well  that  their  places  should 
remain  empty.  Our  ideal  no  longer  asks  to 
create  saints,  virgins,  martyrs;  but,  even 
though  it  take  another  road,  the  spiritual 
road  that  animated  the  saints  must  remain 
intact  and  is  still  necessary  to  the  man  who 
wishes  to  go  further  than  simple  justice.  It 
is  beyond  that  simple  justice  that  the 
morality  begins  of  those  who  hope  in  the 

152 


Our  Anxious  Morality 

future.  It  is  in  this  perhaps  fairy-like,  but 
not  chimerical  part  of  our  conscience  that 
we  must  acclimatise  ourselves  and  learn  to 
delight.  It  is  still  reasonable  to  persuade 
ourselves  that  in  so  doing  we  have  not  been 
duped. 

XXII 
The  good-will  of  men  is  admirable.  They 
are  ready  to  renounce  all  the  rights  which 
they  thought  specific,  to  abandon  all  their 
dreams  and  all  their  hopes  of  happiness, 
even  as  many  of  them  have  already  aban- 
doned, without  despairing,  all  their  hopes 
beyond  the  tomb.  They  are  resigned  in  ad- 
vance to  seeing  their  generations  succeed 
one  another  without  an  object,  a  mission, 
an  horizon,  a  future,  if  such  be  the  certain 
will  of  life.  The  energy  and  pride  of  our 
conscience  will  manifest  themselves  for  the 
last  time  in  this  acceptation  and  in  this  ad- 
hesion. But,  before  reaching  this  stage, 
before  abdicating  so  gloomily,  it  is  right 

153 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

that  we  should  ask  for  proofs ;  and,  hitherto, 
these  seem  to  turn  against  those  who  bring 
them.  In  any  case,  nothing  is  decided.  We 
are  still  in  suspense.  Those  who  assure  us 
that  the  old  moral  ideal  must  disappear, 
because  the  religions  are  disappearing,  are 
strangely  mistaken.  It  was  not  the  relig- 
ions that  formed  the  ideal,  but  the  ideal  that 
gave  birth  to  the  religions.  Now  that  these 
last  have  weakened  or  disappeared,  their 
sources  survive  and  seek  another  channel. 
When  all  is  said,  with  the  exception  of  cer- 
tain factitious  and  parasitic  virtues  which 
we  naturally  abandon  at  the  turn  of  the 
majority  of  religions,  there  is  nothing  as  yet 
to  be  changed  in  our  old  Aryan  ideal  of 
justice,  conscientiousness,  courage,  kindness 
and  honour.  We  have  only  to  draw  nearer 
to  it,  to  clasp  it  more  closely,  to  realise  it 
more  effectively;  and,  before  going  beyond 
it,  we  have  still  a  long  and  noble  road  to 
travel  beneath  the  stars. 

154 


ROME 


ROME 


I 


FOR  twenty  centuries,  Rome  has  been 
the  storehouse  of  all  that  was  beautiful; 
and  surely  in  no  other  spot  in  the  world 
does  so  much  beauty  survive. 

She  has  created  nothing,  save  perhaps  a 
certain  spirit  of  grandeur,  a  coordination  of 
beautiful  things;  but  the  most  magnificent 
moments  of  the  earth  clung  to  her  so  fondly 
and  displayed  such  energy  during  their 
sojourn  that  on  no  other  point  of  the  globe 
have  they  left  so  many  imperishable  traces. 
Treading  her  soil,  we  tread  the  mutilated 
footprint  of  the  goddess  who  reveals  herself 
no  longer  to  men. 

Nature  gave  her  the  wonderful  site,  estab- 
lished her  fitly   for  the  races  that  passed 

157 


The   Measure  of  the   Hours 

beside  on  the  peaks  of  history  to  let  fall 
their  jewels  into  the  noblest  cup  ever  opened 
beneath  the  sky.  She  was  not  unworthy  to 
receive  those  marvels;  she  was  already  their 
equal.  Beneath  her  limpid  azure,  the 
gloomy,  obscure  plants  of  the  north  still 
mate  with  southern  foliage,  inhaling 
their  brightness  and  gladness.  To  the  pur- 
est of  her  trees — the  cypress,  which  lifts  its 
head  like  an  ardent  and  sombre  prayer;  the 
stone-pine,  into  which  the  forest  has  whis- 
pered its  gravest  and  sweetest  thought ;  the 
massive  evergreen  oak,  which  so  willingly 
adopts  an  archway's  graceful  form — to 
these  the  tradition  of  ages  has  given  a 
pride,  a  conscious  solemnity  which  they  pos- 
sess no  elsewhere  in  the  world.  None  can 
forget  them,  who  once  has  seen  them  and 
understood,  or  fail  to  recognise  them  from 
among  kindred  trees  of  a  less  sacred  soil. 
They  were  the  ornaments,  they  were  the 
witnesses  of  incomparable  things.  They  are 

158 


Rome 

one  with  the  scattered  aqueducts,  the  dis- 
crowned mausoleums,  the  broken  arches; 
one  with  the  columns,  heroic  in  their  ruin, 
that  array  the  deserted  Campagna.  They 
have  assumed  the  style  of  the  eternal 
marbles,  which  they  surround  with  respect 
and  silence.  Like  these  marbles,  they  also 
have  two  or  three  clear,  but  mysterious  lines 
to  tell  of  the  sorrow  confessed  by  a  plain 
that  bears,  without  flinching,  the  wreck  of 
its  glory.  They  are — and  know  they  are — 
Roman. 

A  circle  of  mountains,  their  sonorous 
names  augustly  familiar,  their  heads  often 
charged  with  snow  as  dazzling  as  the 
memories  which  they  evoke,  create  around 
the  city  that  never  can  perish  a  precise  and 
glorious  horizon,  which  divides  her  from 
the  world,  but  does  not  isolate  her  from  the 
sky.  And,  in  these  desolate  precincts;  in 
the  midst  of  the  lifeless  places  where  the 
flagstones,  the  steps,  the  porticoes  multiply 

159 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

silence  and  absence;  at  all  the  cross-roads 
where  some  wounded  statue  keeps  guard  in 
emptiness;  among  the  basins,  the  capitals, 
the  nymphs  and  the  tritons,  water  flows 
docile  and  luminous,  obedient  still  to  the 
orders  received  two  thousand  years  ago, 
decking  the  immaculate  solitude  with  its 
mobile  fragrance,  its  garlands  of  dew  and 
trophies  of  crystal,  its  azure  plumes  and 
crowns  of  pearl.  It  is  as  though  time, 
among  all  the  monuments  that  had  hoped 
to  brave  it,  respected  only  the  fragile  hours 
of  that  which  evaporates  and  flows  away. 

II 

Beauty,  though  always  a  borrowed  beauty, 
has  dwelt  so  long  within  these  walls  which 
go  from  the  Janiculum  to  the  Esquiline;  it 
has  taken  root  there  so  persistently  that  the 
very  spot,  the  air  we  breathe,  the  sky  that 
covers  it,  the  curves  that  define  it  have  ac- 

160 


Rome 

quired  a  prodigious  power  of  appropriation 
and  ennoblement.  Rome,  like  a  pyre,  puri- 
fies all  that  the  errors  and  caprices  of  men, 
their  ignorance  and  extravagance  have 
forced  upon  her  incessantly  since  her  ruin. 
So  far,  it  has  been  impossible  to  disfigure 
her.  One  might  almost  believe  that,  for 
any  work  to  be  carried  out  here  or  to  live, 
it  must  first  cast  off  its  original  ugliness,  it 
must  cease  to  be  vulgar.  Whatever  does 
not  conform  to  the  style  of  the  seven  hills  is 
slowly  effaced  and  rejected;  it  crumbles 
beneath  the  influence  of  the  watchful  genius 
that  has  fixed  the  aesthetic  principles  of  the 
city  on  the  horizons,  the  rocks  and  the 
marble  of  the  heights.  Thus,  for  instance, 
the  art  of  the  middle  ages  and  the  Primi- 
tives must  have  been  more  active  here  than 
in  any  other  city,  since  this  was  the  heart  of 
the  Christian  universe;  and  yet  they  have 
left  but  few  distinctive  traces,  these  even 
appearing,  as  it  were,  hidden  and  ashamed: 

161 


The   Measure  of  the   Hours 

enough,  but  no  more,  for  the  history  of  the 
world,  of  which  this  was  the  centre,  not  to 
be  left  incomplete.  But  when  we  turn  to 
those  artists  whose  spirit  was  naturally  in 
harmony  with  that  which  presides  over  the 
destinies  of  the  eternal  city — Giulio 
Romano,  the  Carracci  and,  above  all, 
Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo — we  find  in 
their  work  here  a  plenitude  of  power,  a 
conviction,  a  kind  of  instinctive  satisfaction 
which  they  manifest  in  no  other  place. 
One  feels  that  they  had  not  to  create,  but 
only  to  choose  from  among  the  unrevealed 
forms  that  thronged  to  them  imperiously 
from  every  side,  clamouring  to  be 
born :  to  these  the  masters  gave  substance. 
A  mistake  was  impossible:  they  did  not 
paint,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  but 
merely  uncovered  the  veiled  images  which 
had  haunted  the  halls  and  arcades  of  the 
palaces.  And  so  intimate,  so  indispensable 
is  the  relation  between  their  art  and  the 

163 


Rome 

environment  that  gives  it  life  that,  when 
their  works  are  exiled  to  the  museums  or 
churches  of  other  cities,  they  seem  out  of 
proportion,  unduly  vigorous  and  unduly 
decorative,  with  an  arbitrary  conception  of 
life.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  copies 
or  photographs  of  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel  appear  disconcerting  and  almost  in- 
comprehensible. 

But  to  the  traveller  who  does  not  enter 
the  Vatican  till  he,  too,  has  drunk  in  the 
mighty  will-power  that  emanates  from  the 
thousand  fragments  of  the  temples  and 
public  places:  to  him  Michael  Angelo's 
overpowering  effort  becomes  magnificent 
and  natural.  The  prodigious  vault,  on 
which  a  people  of  giants  hurtle  together  in 
a  grave  and  harmonious  orgy  of  enthusiasm 
and  muscles,  turns  into  an  arch  of  the  very 
sky  and  reflects  all  the  scenes  of  energy,  all 
the  burning  virtues  the  memories  of  which 

are  still  restless  beneath  the  ruins  of  this 

163 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

passionate  soul.  So,  too,  as  he  stands  be- 
fore the  Conflagration  of  the  Borgo,  he  will 
not  feel  as  he  would  were  he  to  behold  the 
admirable  fresco  on  the  walls  of  the  Na- 
tional Gallery  or  the  Louvre;  he  will  not 
say  to  himself,  as  Taine  does,  for  instance, 
that  these  superb  nude  bodies  are  but 
vaguely  concerned  with  the  thing  that  is 
happening,  that  the  flames  which  arise  from 
the  building  in  no  wise  disturb  them  and 
that  their  one  preoccupation  is  to  pose  as 
good  models  and  bring  into  value  the  curve 
of  a  hip  or  the  anatomy  of  a  thigh.  No, 
the  visitor  who  has  submissively  heeded  the 
injunctions  of  all  that  surrounds  him  will 
require  no  telling  that  here,  in  these  halls  of 
the  Vatican,  as  beneath  the  vault  of  the 
Sistine,  he  is  contemplating  the  tardy,  but 
normal  and  logical  development  of  an  art 
which  might  have  been  that  of  Rome.  He 
will  realise  that,  different  as  the  impression 
may    be    which    these    two    great    efforts 

164 


Rome 

produce,  he  discovers  the  formula  here 
which  the  too  positive  genius  of  the  Quirites 
had  lacked  the  good  fortune  or  the  oppor- 
tunity to  disengage.  For  Rome,  notwith- 
standing all  her  endeavours,  could  not,  of 
her  own  initiative,  give  to  the  universe  the 
essential  image  which  she  had  promised.  It 
was  to  the  spoils  of  Greece  that  she  owed 
her  beauty;  and  her  chief  merit  was  that 
she  understood  the  beauty  of  Greek  art  and 
eagerly  amassed  its  treasures.  Her  en- 
deavours to  add  to  it  resulted  only  in  de- 
formity; she  was  unable  to  adapt  its  expres- 
sion to  her  personal  life.  Her  paintings  and 
sculptures  responded  only  by  a  kind  of 
heresy,  a  vague  approximateness  to  the 
realities  of  her  existence;  and  such 
feeble  originality  as  her  architecture 
possessed  was  due  solely  to  its  colossal  pro- 
portions. One  might  almost  imagine  that 
old  Buonarotti  and  the  superb  colourist  of 
Urbino  had   but  unearthed,   after  all  the 

165 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

catastrophes,  all  the  long  silences  and  the 
seeming  deaths  of  Rome,  the  latent,  unin- 
terrupted tradition  which  had  unceasingly 
been  in  travail  underground  and  which  now 
emerged  at  last  to  culminate  in  their  work 
and  to  declare  to  the  world  what  the  Em- 
pire had  been  powerless  to  say.  For  these 
men  are  more  distinctively  Roman,  more 
truly  representative,  perhaps,  of  the  uncon- 
scious and  secret  desire  of  that  Latin  earth 
than  was  the  Rome  of  the  Caesars.  That 
Rome  had  failed  in  its  image.  She  had  re- 
mained artificially  Hellenic;  and  Greece 
could  not  provide  this  infinitely  vaster  race, 
differing  so  widely  from  her,  with  the  forms 
demanded  by  its  ornamental  consciousness. 
Greece  could  be  only  a  sure  and  magnificent 
starting-point;  but  her  delicate,  precise 
statues  and  paintings,  so  nicely,  almost 
minutely  proportioned,  were  out  of  place  in 
that  Forum,  surcharged  with  immense 
monuments,     as     among     the     monstrous 

166 


Rome 

Thermae  and  violent  circuses,  or  under  the 
sumptuous  arches  of  the  superposed  basili- 
cas. What  if  those  frescoes  of  Michael 
Angelo  were  the  answer  to  the  call  of  the 
empty  arches  that  had  waited  a  thousand 
years;  what  if  they  were  the  almost  organic 
consequence  of  those  imperial  columns  and 
marbles?  And  may  we  not  ask  ourselves 
too  whether  the  ceiling,  the  penden- 
tives  and  lunettes  of  the  Farnesina  and 
the  Conflagration  of  the  Rorgo  do  not 
illustrate,  better  by  far  than  the  sculptures 
of  Phidias  or  Praxiteles,  better  also  than 
the  best  paintings  of  Pompeii  or  Her- 
culaneum,  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid, 
Virgil's  JEne'id,  or  the  poems  of  Horace? 

Ill 

But  all  this,  perhaps,  is  merely  illusion 
and  due  to  the  spell  of  the  appropriative 
power  which   we   have   mentioned   above. 

167 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

That  power  is  such  that  whatever  might,  at 
the  first  glance,  seem  wholly  opposed  to  the 
idea  that  reigns  within  these  walls  not  only 
does  not  contradict  this  idea,  but  serves  to 
define  and  declare  it.  Even  Bernini — rhe- 
torical, exuberant,  ubiquitous  Bernini — 
as  irreconcilable  as  it  is  possible  to  be  with 
the  primitive  gravity  and  taciturnity  of 
Rome,  even  he,  so  detestable  elsewhere, 
seems  here  to  be  adopted,  justified  by  the 
genius  of  the  city  and  serves  to  explain  and 
illustrate  certain  somewhat  redundant 
and  declamatory  sides  of  Roman  greatness. 
Moreover,  a  city  that  possesses  the  Venus 
of  the  Capitol  and  of  the  Vatican,  the 
Sleeping  Ariadne,  the  Meleager  and  the 
Torso  of  Hercules,  the  countless  marvels 
of  museums  as  numerous  almost  as  her  pal- 
aces— think  only  of  the  treasures  in  a 
single  one  of  these  museums,  the  newest  of 
all,    the    Nazionale — a   city    whose    every 

street,   almost  every   house  conceals  some 

168 


Rome 

fragment  of  marble  or  bronze  which,  did 
some  new  town  contain  it,  would  send  pil- 
grims flocking;  a  city  that  can  offer  the 
Pantheon  of  Agrippa,  certain  columns  in 
the  Forum,  in  a  word,  so  many  treasures 
that  baffled  memory  cannot  keep  pace  with 
untiring  admiration;  a  city  that  has  among 
its  wonders  those  cypress-girdled  lawns  of 
the  Villa  Borghese,  those  fountains,  those 
eternal  gardens;  a  city,  indeed,  that  is  the 
refuge  of  all  that  was  best  in  the  past  of 
the  only  people  who  cultivated  beauty  as 
others  cultivated  corn,  the  olive  or  the  vine : 
such  a  city  opposes  a  resistance  to  vulgarity 
which,  inactive  though  it  be,  is  yet  invinci- 
ble ;  and  she  can  tolerate  all  things  without 
defilement.  The  immortal  presence  of  an 
assembly  of  gods,  so  perfect  that  no  mutila-1 
tion  can  alter  the  rhythm  of  body  or  pose, 
protects  her  against  the  errors  herself  may 
commit  and  prevents  the  new  generations 

of  men  from  having  more  empire  upon  her 

169 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

than  time  and  the  barbarians  had  on  those 
very  gods. 

And  these  lead  us  back  to  the  little  cities 
of  Hellas  that  discovered  one  day  and  fixed 
for  ever  the  laws  of  human  beauty.  The 
beauty  of  the  earth,  except  for  some  spots 
which  our  sordid  industries  have  ravaged, 
has  altered  but  little  since  the  days  of  Au- 
gustus and  Pericles.  The  sea  is  infinite  still, 
is  still  inviolate.  The  forest,  the  plain,  the 
harvest,  the  villages,  rivers  and  streams, 
the  mountains,  the  dawn  and  the  evening, 
the  stars  and  the  sky,  vary  as  these  all  may 
according  to  climate  and  latitude,  offer  us 
still  the  same  spectacles  of  grandeur  and 
tenderness,  the  same  soft,  profound  har- 
monies, the  same  fairy-like  scenes  of  chang- 
ing complexity  which  they  showed  to  the 
Athenian  citizens  and  the  people  of  Rome. 
Nature  remains  more  or  less  as  she 
was;  and,  besides,  we  have  grown  more 
sensitive  and  can  to-day  admire  more  freely. 

170 


Rome 

But,  when  we  turn  to  the  beauty  special  to 
man,  the  beauty  that  is  his  own  immediate 
aim,  we  find  that,  owing  perhaps  to  our  too 
great  wealth  or  excessive  application,  to  the 
scattering  of  our  efforts,  our  lack  of  concen- 
tration, or  the  want  of  a  certain  goal  and 
an  incontestable  starting-point,  we  appear  to 
have  lost  almost  all  that  the  ancients  had 
been  able  to  establish  and  make  their  own. 
In  all  that  regards  purely  human  aesthetics, 
in  what  concerns  our  body,  our  gestures,  our 
clothes,  the  objects  we  live  with,  our  houses 
and  gardens,  our  monuments,  even  our  land- 
scapes, we  are  groping  so  timidly,  we  dis- 
play such  confusion  and  inexperience  that 
one  might  truly  believe  our  occupation  of 
this  planet  to  date  but  from  yesterday  and 
ourselves  to  be  still  at  the  very  beginning  of 
the  period  of  adaptation.  For  the  work  of 
our  hands  there  no  longer  exists  a  common 
measure,  an  accepted  rule  or  conviction. 
Our    painters,    our    architects,    our    sculp- 

171 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

tors,  our  men  of  letters — and  we  in  our 
homes,  our  cities — seek  in  a  thousand  differ- 
ent, contradictory  directions  for  the  sure, 
the  undeniable  beauty  which  the  ancients 
possessed  so  fully.  Should  one  of  us,  by 
any  chance,  create,  join  together  or  discover 
a  few  lines,  a  harmony  of  form  or  colour 
that  should  incontestably  prove  that  the 
mysterious,  decisive  point  had  been  attained, 
it  would  be  regarded  as  the  merest  hazard, 
as  an  isolated  and  precious  phenomenon 
and  neither  the  author  nor  any  one  else 
would  be  able  to  repeat  it. 

And  yet,  for  a  few  happy  years,  man  had 
mastered  the  laws  of  the  beauty  that  is 
essentially  and  specifically  human ;  and  so 
great  was  his  certainty  that  it  compels  our 
conviction  even  to  this  day.  In  the  beauty 
of  his  own  body,  the  Greek  instinctively 
found  the  fixed  standard  which  the  Egyp- 
tians, the  Assyrians,  the  Persians  and  all  the 

anterior   civilisations   had   sought   in   vain 

172 


Rome 

among  animals  and  flowers,  rocks  and 
mountains,  monsters  and  chimeras;  and  the 
architecture  of  his  temples  and  palaces,  the 
style  of  his  houses,  the  proportion  and 
ornament  of  the  things  which  he  used  in  his 
daily  life  were  all  derived  from  the  beauty 
of  this  nude  and  perfect  body.  This  people, 
among  which  nudity,  with  its  natural  conse- 
quence, the  irreproachable  harmony  of 
limbs  and  muscles,  was  almost  a  religious 
and  civic  obligation,  has  taught  us  that  the 
beauty  of  the  human  body  is  as  diverse  in 
its  perfection,  as  spiritual,  as  mysterious 
as  the  beauty  of  the  stars  or  sea.  Every 
other  ideal  has  misled  and  must  always  mis- 
lead the  endeavours  and  efforts  of  man.  In 
all  the  arts,  intelligent  races  came  nearer  to 
true  beauty  in  proportion  as  they  came 
nearer  to  the  habit  of  nudity;  departing 
from  this,  they  departed  also  from  beauty. 
The  beauty  proper  to  Rome — in  other 
words,  the  little  original  beauty  which  she 

*73 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

added  to  the  spoils  of  Greece — was  due  to 
the  last  remains  of  this  custom.  For,  in 
Rome,  as  Taine  tells  us,  "they  also  as- 
sembled together  to  swim,  to  be  rubbed,  to 
perspire,  to  wrestle  and  run ;  or  at  least,  to 
watch  the  runners  and  wrestlers.  For 
Rome,  in  this  respect,  is  only  an  enlarged 
Athens;  the  same  ways  of  life  obtain,  the 
same  habits,  the  same  instincts  and 
pleasures:  the  only  difference  lies  in  the  pro- 
portion and  the  moment.  The  city  has 
swollen  till  it  numbers  masters  by  the  hun- 
dred thousand  and  slaves  by  the  million; 
but,  from  Xenophon  to  Marcus  Aurelius, 
the  gymnastic  and  rhetorical  training  has 
not  altered;  they  have  still  the  tastes  of  ath- 
letes and  orators  and  it  is  in  this  direction 
that  one  must  work  to  please  them ;  they  are 
worshippers  of  the  nude,  they  are  judges  of 
style,  of  conversation  and  ornament.  We 
can  no  longer  understand  this  pagan  life  of 
the  body,  which  was  so  curious  and  yet  so 

174 


Rome 

idle;  the  climate  has  remained  as  it  was,  but 
man  changed  when  he  put  on  clothes  and 
turned  Christian." 

It  might  more  justly  be  said,  perhaps,  that 
Rome,  at  the  period  of  which  Taine  speaks, 
was  an  intermittent  and  incomplete  Athens. 
What  was  habitual  there  and,  in  some  meas- 
ure, organic  becomes  here  only  artificial 
and  exceptional.  They  still  cultivate  and 
admire  the  human  body,  but  it  is  almost 
always  concealed  by  the  toga ;  and  the  wear- 
ing of  the  toga  blurs  the  pure,  clear  lines 
which  a  multitude  of  nude  and  living 
statues  imposed  upon  the  columns  and 
pediments  of  the  temples.  The  monuments 
grow  larger  and  larger,  lose  their  form 
and,  little  by  little,  their  human  harmony. 
The  golden  standard  is  shrouded  and  the 
veil  shall  be  lifted  only  by  a  few  artists  of 
the  Renascence,  which  was  the  moment 
when  positive  beauty  shed  its  last  beams. 


i75 


THE    PSYCHOLOGY   OF 
ACCIDENT 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  ACCIDENT 


THE  more  we  master  the  forces  of 
nature,  the  more  do  our  chances  of 
accidents  multiply,  even  as  the  tamer's 
dangers  increase  in  proportion  to  the  num- 
ber of  wild  animals  which  he  "puts  through 
their  tricks"  in  the  cage.  Formerly,  we 
avoided  the  contact  of  these  forces  as  much 
as  possible;  to-day,  they  have  gained  admit- 
tance to  our  household.  And  so,  notwith- 
standing our  more  prudent  and  peaceable 
manners,  it  happens  to  us  more  often  than 
to  our  fathers  to  look  pretty  closely  upon 
death.  It  is  probable,  therefore,  that  many 
of  those  who  read  these  notes  will  have  felt 
the  same  emotions  and  have  had  occasion  to 
make  similar  remarks. 

179 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

II 

One  of  the  first  questions  that  arise  is  that 
of  presentiment.  Is  it  true,  as  many  assert, 
that  from  the  very  morning  we  have  a  sort 
of  intuition  of  the  event  that  threatens  the 
day?  It  is  difficult  to  reply,  inasmuch  as 
our  experience  can  bear  only  upon  events 
which  "might  have  turned  out  worse,"  or 
which,  at  least,  have  had  no  serious  results. 
It  seems  natural,  therefore,  that  those  acci- 
dents which  were  to  be  free  from  conse- 
quences should  not  have  stirred  the  deep 
waters  of  our  instinct  beforehand;  and  I 
believe  it  to  be  true  that  they  do  not  even 
ripple  their  surface.  As  for  the  others, 
which  entail  a  more  or  less  speedy  death, 
their  victims  seldom  possess  the  strength 
or  lucidity  required  to  satisfy  our  curiosity. 
In  any  case,  all  that  our  personal  experience 
is  able  to  gather  on  this  subject  is  very 
uncertain;  and  the  question  remains. 

1 80 


The  Psychology  of  Accident 

III 

One  fine  day,  then,  we  start  at  early  dawn, 
by  motor-car,  bicycle,  motor-cycle,  in  a  skiff 
or  steam-boat:  it  is  immaterial  to  the  event 
that  is  preparing;  but,  to  make  the  picture 
more  definite,  let  us  take,  by  preference,  a 
motor-car  or  motor-cycle,  which  are  won- 
derful instruments  of  affliction  and  which 
put  the  fiercest  questions  to  fortune  in  the 
great  game  of  life  and  death.  Suddenly, 
for  no  reason,  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  long,  wide  highway, 
at  the  top  of  a  descent,  here  or  there,  on 
the  right  or  on  the  left,  seizing  the  brake, 
the  wheel,  the  steering-handle,  unexpectedly 
barring  all  space,  assuming  the  deceptive 
and  perfectly  transparent  appearance  of  a 
tree,  a  wall,  a  rock,  an  obstacle  of  one  sort 
or  another,  stands  death,  face  to  face,  tower- 
ing, unforeseen,  huge,  immediate,  indubiti- 

able,   inevitable,   irrevocable,   and,   with   a 

181 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

click,  shuts  off  the  horizon  of  life,  which 
it  leaves  without  outlet.  .   .   . 

Forthwith,  an  eager  and  interminable 
scene,  contained  within  half  a  second,  sets  in 
between  our  intelligence  and  our  instinct. 
The  attitude  of  our  intelligence,  our  reason, 
our  consciousness,  by  whatever  name  you 
please  to  call  it,  is  extremely  interesting.  It 
decides  instantaneously,  sanely  and  logically 
that  all  is  irretrievably  lost.  Yet  it  displays 
neither  madness  nor  terror.  It  pictures  the 
catastrophe,  with  all  its  details  and  conse- 
quences, exactly;  and  it  realises  with  con- 
tentment that  it  is  not  afraid  and  that  it 
preserves  its  lucidity.  Between  the  fall  and 
the  collision,  it  has  time  to  rest,  it  reflects, 
it  diverts  itself,  it  finds  leisure  wherein  to 
think,  of  all  manner  of  other  things,  to  call 
up  memories,  to  make  comparisons,  trifling 
and  accurate  observations:  the  tree  which 
we  see  through  death  is  a  plane-tree,  there 

are  three  holes  in  its  patterned  bark.  .   .   . 

182 


The  Psychology  of  Accident 

It  is  not  so  fine  as  the  one  in  the  garden. 
.  .  .  The  rock  on  which  our  skull  will  be 
broken  is  veined  with  mica  and  very  white 
marble.  .  .  .  Our  intelligence  feels  that  it 
is  not  responsible,  that  we  have  nothing  to 
reproach  it  with;  it  is  almost  smiling,  it 
enjoys  an  ambiguous  sensation  of  pleasure 
and  awaits  the  inevitable  with  a  tempered 
resignation  mingled  with  prodigious  curi- 
osity. 

IV 

It  is  evident  that,  if  our  lives  had  only  the 
intervention  of  this  indolent,  this  too-logical 
and  too-clearsighted  dilettante  to  rely  upon, 
every  accident  would  be  fated  to  end  in 
disaster.  Luckily,  warned  by  the  nerves, 
which  whirl,  lose  their  heads  and  bawl  like 
terrified  children,  another  figure  bounds 
upon  the  stage,  a  rugged,  brutal,  naked, 
muscular  figure,  elbowing  its  way  and  seiz- 
ing with  an  irresistible  gesture  such  rem- 

183 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

nants  of  authority  and  chances  of  safety  as 
come  within  its  reach.  We  call  it  instinct, 
the  unconscious,  the  subconscious :  it  matters 
not  what  we  call  it.  Where  was  it?  Where 
does  it  come  from?  'It  was  somewhere 
asleep  or  else  busied  with  dingy  and  thank- 
less tasks  deep  down  in  the  primitive  cav- 
erns of  our  body. I  Once  it  was  that  body's 
uncontested  king,  but,  for  some  time  since, 
has  been  relegated  to  the  lower  darkness  as 
an  ill-bred,  ill-dressed,  ill-spoken  poor  rela- 
tion, a  troublesome  and  often  disagreeable 
witness  of  our  original  misfortune.  We  no 
longer  think  of  it,  no  longer  have  recourse 
to  it,  save  in  the  desperate  seconds  of  our 
supreme  anguish.  Fortunately,  it  has  a 
decent  nature,  is  utterly  unselfish  and  bears 
no  grudge.  Instinct  knows,  besides,  that  all 
those  ornaments  from  the  height  of  which 
we  look  down  upon  and  despise  it  are 
ephemeral  and  frivolous  and  that,  in  reality, 
itself  is  the  sole  master  of  the  human  dwell- 

184 


The   Psychology  of  Accident 

ing.  With  a  glance  that  is  surer  and  swifter 
than  the  tremendous  onrush  of  the  peril,  it 
takes  in  the  situation,  then  and  there  un- 
ravels all  its  details,  issues  and  possibilities 
and,  in  a  trice,  affords  a  magnificent,  an 
unforgettable  spectacle  of  strength,  courage, 
precision  and  will,  in  which  unconquered 
life  flies  at  the  throat  of  unconquerable 
death. 

V 

This  champion  of  existence,  upstarting 
like  the  shaggy  savage  of  the  fairy-tales 
who  comes  to  the  rescue  of  the  disconsolate 
princess,  works  miracles  in  the  strictest,  the 
most  precise  sense  of  the  word.  Above 
all,  under  pressure  of  necessity,  it  has  one 
incomparable  prerogative :  it  knows  nothing 
of  deliberation,  of  all  the  obstacles  which  it 
raises,  all  the  impossibilities  which  it  im- 
poses. Instinct  never  accepts  disaster,  not 
for  a  moment  admits  the  inevitable  and, 

185 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

when  on  the  point  of  being  smashed  to 
atoms,  acts  cheerfully  against  all  hope,  as 
though  doubt,  anxiety,  fear,  discourage- 
ment were  notions  absolutely  foreign  to  the 
primitive  forces  that  quicken  it.  Through 
a  granite  wall  it  sees  nothing  but  safety,  like 
a  cranny  of  light;  and,  by  dint  of  seeing  it, 
creates  it  in  the  stone.  It  does  not  abandon 
the  hope  of  stopping  a  mountain  that  is 
rushing  down  upon  it.  It  thrusts  aside  a 
rock,  darts  upon  a  wire,  slips  between  two 
columns  which  were  mathematically  too 
close  together  to  admit  its  passage.  Among 
trees,  it  chooses  infallibly  the  only  one  that 
will  yield  because  an  invisible  worm  has 
gnawed  its  root;  amid  a  cluster  of  vain 
leaves,  it  discovers  the  one  strong  branch 
that  overhangs  the  abyss;  and,  in  a  heap 
of  sharp  flints,  it  is  as  though  instinct  had 
prepared  in  anticipation  the  bed  of  moss 
and  ferns  that  is  to  receive  the  body.  .   .   . 

The  danger  once  past,  reason,  stupefied, 

186 


The  Psychology  of  Accident 

gasping  for  breath,  unbelieving,  a  little  dis- 
concerted, turns  its  head  to  take  a  last  look 
at  the  improbable.  Then  it  resumes  the 
lead,  as  of  right,  while  the  good  savage, 
that  no  one  dreams  of  thanking,  returns  in 
silence  to  its  cave. 

VI 

Perhaps  it  is  not  surprising  that  instinct 
should  save  us  from  the  great  habitual  and 
immemorial  dangers:  water,  fire,  falls,  col- 
lisions, animals.  There  is  here,  evidently,  a 
long  custom,  an  ancestral  experience  to  ex- 
plain its  skill.  But  what  amazes  me  is  the 
ease,  the  quickness  wherewith  it  acquaints 
itself  with  the  most  complicated,  the  most 
unusual  inventions  of  our  intelligence.  We 
have  only,  once  and  for  all,  to  show  it  the 
mechanism,  the  use  and  the  purpose  of  the 
most  unexpected  machine,  however  foreign 
and  useless  to  our  real  and  primitive  needs: 

187 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

instinct  understands;  and,  from  that  mo- 
ment, in  an  exigency,  it  will  know  the 
machine's  last  secrets  and  its  management 
better  than  does  the  intelligence  which  con- 
structed it. 

That  is  why,  let  the  instrument  be  as  new, 
as  recent  or  as  formidable  as  it  will,  we  can 
safely  say  that,  in  principle,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  an  inevitable  catastrophe.  Our  un- 
consciousness is  always  alive  and  equal  to 
every  imaginable  situation.  Between  the 
jaws  of  the  vice  contained  in  the  power  of 
the  mountain  or  the  sea,  we  can,  we  must 
look  for  a  decisive  movement  on  the  part  of 
our  instinct,  which  possesses  resources  as  in- 
exhaustible as  those  of  the  universe  or  of 
nature,  upon  whose  stores  it  draws  at  will. 

VII 

And  yet,  if  the  whole  truth  be  told,  we  no 
longer  all  have  the  same  right  to  rely  upon 

188 


The   Psychology  of  Accident 

its  sovereign  intercession.  It  never  dies, 
never  sulks,  is  never  mistaken;  but  many 
men  banish  it  to  such  depths,  so  rarely  per- 
mit it  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  sunlight,  lose 
sight  of  it  so  entirely,  humiliate  it  so  cruelly, 
pinion  it  so  closely  that,  in  the  madness  of 
their  dire  need,  they  forget  where  to  look 
for  it.  They  have  not  the  material  time 
in  which  to  warn  it  or  to  release  it  from  the 
dungeon  wherein  they  have  chained  it;  and, 
when,  at  last,  full  of  goodwill,  armed  with 
its  tools,  it  hurries  up  to  the  rescue,  the 
mischief  is  done,  it  is  too  late,  death  has 
completed  its  work. 

These  inequalities  of  instinct,  which  are 
connected  rather,  I  suppose,  with  the 
promptness  of  the  appeal  rather  than  with 
the  quality  of  the  assistance,  appear  in  every 
accident.  Place  two  motorists  in  two 
parallel,  includable  and  exactly  identical 
cases  of  danger:  an  inexplicable  touch  of 

the  wheel,  a  leap,  a  twist,  a  turn,  a  sheer 

189 


The   Measure  of  the   Hours 

quiescence,  a  spell  of  some  kind  will  save 
the  one,  whereas  the  other  will  go  his  nor- 
mal and  wretched  way  and  be  smashed  to 
pieces  against  the  obstacle.  Of  the  six  per- 
sons in  a  car,  all  strictly  involved  in  the 
same  fate,  three  will  make  the  only  possible, 
illogical,  unforeseen  and  necessary  move- 
ment, while  the  three  others  will  act  with 
too  much  intelligence  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion. I  once  witnessed  one  of  those  sur- 
prising manifestations  of  instinct,  or  nearly 
witnessed  it;  for,  although  I  arrived  after 
the  accident,  at  least  I  gathered  the  throb- 
bing impressions  on  the  spot,  among  the 
injured.  It  was  on  the  descent  from  Gour- 
don,  the  rugged  little  village,  well  known 
to  excursionists  from  Cannes  and  Nice, 
perched  on  a  precipitous  rock,  over  two 
thousand  feet  in  height,  to  escape  the 
Barbary  pirates.  It  is  inacessible  on  every 
side;  no  thoroughfare  leads  to  it,  save  a 
terrible  zigzag  way,  which  runs  down  be- 

190 


The  Psychology   of  Accident 

tween  two  ravines.  A  tilted  cart,  over- 
loaded with  eight  persons,  including  a 
woman  carrying  her  child  not  two  months 
old,  was  descending  this  dangerous  road, 
when  the  horse  took  fright,  ran  away  and 
darted  towards  the  abyss.  The  passengers 
felt  themselves  rushing  to  their  deaths;  and 
the  woman,  anxious  to  save  the  child  and 
obeying  an  admirable  impulse  of  maternal 
love,  flung  it,  at  the  supreme  moment,  from 
the  other  side  of  the  cart,  where  it  fell  on 
the  roadway,  while  all  the  others  disap- 
peared in  the  precipice  bristling  with  mur- 
derous rocks.  Now,  by  a  miracle  which  is 
not  unusual  where  human  lives  are  at  stake, 
the  seven  victims,  caught  up  in  brushwood, 
in  all  manner  of  boughs,  escaped  with  insig- 
nificant scratches,  whereas  the  poor  little 
child  died  where  it  fell,  with  its  skull  broken 
by  a  stone  on  the  road.  Two  contrary  in- 
stincts had  here  struggled  for  the  mastery; 
and  that  one  with  which  a  glimmer  of  re- 

191 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

flection  had  probably  been  mingled  had 
made  the  more  awkward  movement  of  the 
two.  You  will  speak  of  good  and  bad  luck. 
These  mysterious  words  are  permissible, 
provided  it  be  understood  that  they  are 
applied  to  the  mysterious  movements  of  our 
unconsciousness.  It  is,  in  fact,  preferable, 
whenever  the  thing  is  possible,  to  throw 
back  the  source  of  a  mystery  within  our- 
selves: we  thus  limit  to  that  extent  the  in- 
auspicious field  of  error,  discouragement 
and  impotence. 

VIII 

We  immediately  ask  ourselves  whether  we 
are  able,  if  not  to  perfect  our  instinct,  which 
I  persist  in  believing  perfect,  at  least  to 
recall  it  closer  to  our  will,  to  unloose  its 
bonds,  to  restore  its  original  freedom.  This 
question  would  demand  a  special  study.  In 
the  meantime,  it  appears  fairly  probable 
that,  by  drawing  habitually  and  systemat- 

192 


The  Psychology  of  Accident 

ically  closer  to  material  forces  and  facts,  to 
all  that  which,  in  a  word  that  expresses 
enormous  things,  we  call  nature,  we  can 
diminish  by  so  much  daily  the  distance 
which  instinct  will  have  to  cover  in  order 
to  come  to  our  aid.  This  distance,  as  yet 
inappreciable  in  savages  and  in  simple  and 
humble  men,  increases  with  every  step  taken 
by  our  education  and  civilisation.  I  am 
persuaded  that  it  could  be  proved  that  a 
peasant  or  workman,  even  if  he  be  the  less 
young  and  the  less  active,  if  overtaken  by 
the  same  disaster  as  his  squire  or  employer, 
has  two  or  three  chances  more  than  the 
latter  of  escaping  safe  and  sound.  In  any 
case,  there  is  no  accident  of  which  the  vic- 
tim is  not,  a  priori,  in  the  wrong.  It  is 
meet  that  he  should  say  to  himself,  what 
is  literally  true,  that  any  other,  in  his  place, 
would  have  escaped;  consequently,  the  ma- 
jority of  the  risks  which  those  around  him 
take  remain  forbidden  to  himself.     His  un- 

193 


The   Measure  of  the  Hours 

consciousness,  which  here  blends  with  his 
future,  is  not  "in  form."  Henceforth  he 
must  distrust  his  luck.  From  the  point  of 
view  of  the  great  dangers,  he  is  a  minus 
habens,  as  they  used  to  say  in  Roman  law. 


IX 

For  all  this,  when  we  consider  the  lack  of 
consistency  of  our  body,  the  inordinate 
power  of  all  that  surrounds  it  and  the  num- 
ber of  perils  to  which  we  expose  ourselves, 
our  luck,  compared  with  that  of  other  living 
beings,  must  needs  appear  prodigious.  In 
the  midst  of  our  machines,  our  various 
apparatus,  our  poisons,  our  fires,  our  waters, 
all  the  forces  which  we  have  more  or  less 
mastered,  but  which  are  always  ready  to 
rise  in  revolt,  we  risk  our  lives  twenty  or 
thirty  times  oftener  than  the  horse,  for  in- 
stance, the  ox  or  the  dog.  Now,  in  a  street 
or  road  accident,  in  a  flood,  an  earthquake, 

194 


The  Psychology  of  Accident 

a  storm,  a  fire,  in  the  fall  of  a  tree  or  a 
house,  the  animal  will  almost  always  be 
struck,  by  preference  to  the  man.  It  is  ob- 
vious that  the  latter's  reason,  his  experience 
and  his  more  prudent  instinct  preserve  him 
to  a  great  extent.  Nevertheless,  one  would 
say  that  there  must  be  something  more. 
Granting  equal  risks  and  hazards  and  allow- 
ing for  intelligence  and  a  more  skilful  and 
certain  instinct,  the  fact  still  remains  that 
nature  seems  to  be  afraid  of  man.  She  re- 
ligiously avoids  touching  that  frail  body, 
surrounds  it  with  a  sort  of  manifest  and 
unaccountable  respect  and,  when,  through 
our  own  arrogant  fault,  we  oblige  her  to 
hurt  us,  she  does  us  the  least  harm  possible. 


i9S 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  FIST 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  FIST 


IT  is  well,  in  the  holiday  season  of 
summer,  to  occupy  ourselves  with  the 
aptitudes  of  our  body,  once  more  re- 
stored to  nature,  and,  in  particular,  with 
the  exercises  that  most  increase  its 
strength,  its  agility  and  its  qualities  as 
the  body  of  a  fine  animal,  healthy, 
formidable,  ready  to  face  all  life's  ex- 
igencies. 

I  remember,  in  this  connection,  that  lately, 
when  writing  of  the  sword,1  I  allowed  my- 
self to  be  carried  away  by  my  subject 
and  was  guilty  of  a  certain  injustice  towards 
the  only  specific  weapon  with  which  nature 

1  Cf.  the  essay  entitled  In  Praise  of  the  Sword  in 
The  Double  Garden. — Publishers'  Note. 

109 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

has  endowed  us:  I  mean  the  fist.  This  in- 
justice I  am  anxious  to  repair. 

The  sword  and  the  fist  form  each  other's 
complement  and,  if  the  expression  be  not 
too  ungracious,  can  keep  house  together 
on  excellent  terms.  But  the  sword  is,  or 
should  be,  only  an  exceptional  weapon,  a 
sort  of  ultima  et  sacra  ratio.  We  should 
not  have  recourse  to  it  save  with  solemn 
precautions  and  a  ceremonial  equivalent  to 
that  wherewith  we  surround  those  criminal 
trials  which  may  end  in  a  sentence  of  death. 
The  fist,  on  the  contrary,  is  preeminently 
the  every-day,  the  human  weapon,  the  only 
weapon  organically  adapted  to  the  sensi- 
bility, the  resistance,  the  offensive  and  de- 
fensive structure  of  our  body. 

The  fact  is  that,  if  we  well  examine  our- 
selves, we  must  rank  ourselves,  without 
vanity,  among  the  most  unprotected,  the 
most  naked,  the  most  fragile,  the  mostbrittle 
and  flaccid  beings  in  creation.    Compare  us, 

200 


In  Praise  of  the  Fist 

for  instance,  with  the  insect,  so  formidably 
equipped  for  attack  and  so  fantastically 
armour-cased !  Contemplate,       among 

others,  the  ant,  upon  which  you  may  heap 
ten  or  twenty  thousand  times  the  weight 
of  its  body  without  apparently  incon- 
veniencing it.  Consider  the  cockchafer, 
the  least  robust  of  the  beetles,  and  weigh 
what  it  is  able  to  carry  before  the  rings  of 
its  abdomen  crack  or  the  casings  of  its  fore- 
wings  yield.  As  for  the  resistance  of  the 
stag-beetle,  it  is,  so  to  speak,  unlimited. 
By  comparison,  therefore,  we  and  the  ma- 
jority of  mammals  are  unsolidified  beings, 
still  in  the  gelatinous  state  and  quite  close 
to  the  primitive  protoplasm.  Our  skeleton 
alone,  which  is  as  it  were  the  rough  sketch 
of  our  definitive  form,  offers  a  certain  con- 
sistency. But  how  wretched  is  this  skeleton, 
which  one  would  think  constructed  by  a 
child!     Look  at  our  spine,  the  basis  of  our 

whole  system,  whose  ill-set  vertebrae  hold 

20 1 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

together  only  by  a  miracle,  and  our  thoracic 
cage,  which  presents  only  a  series  of 
diagonals  which  we  hardly  dare  touch  with 
the  finger-tips.  Now  it  is  against  this  slack 
and  incoherent  machine,  which  resembles  an 
abortive  effort  of  nature,  against  this  pitiful 
organism,  from  which  life  tends  to  escape 
on  every  side,  that  we  have  contrived 
weapons  capable  of  annihilating  us  even  if 
we  possessed  the  fabulous  armour-case,  the 
prodigious  strength  and  the  incredible  vital- 
ity of  the  most  indestructible  insects.  We 
have  here,  it  must  be  agreed,  a  very  curious 
and  a  very  disconcerting  aberration,  an 
initial  folly,  peculiar  to  the  human  race,  that 
goes  on  increasing  daily.  In  order  to  return 
to  the  natural  logic  followed  by  all  other 
living  beings,  if  we  are  permitted  to  use 
extraordinary  weapons  against  our  enemies 
of  a  different  order,  we  ought,  among  our- 
selves, among  men,  to  employ  only  the 
means  of  attack  and  defence  provided  by 

202 


In   Praise  of  the  Fist 

our  own  bodies.  Were  mankind  to  conform 
strictly  to  the  evident  will  of  nature,  the 
fist,  which  is  to  man  what  its  horns  are  to 
the  bull  and  its  claws  and  teeth  to  the  lion, 
the  fist  should  suffice  for  all  our  needs  of 
protection,  justice  and  revenge.  A  wiser 
race  would  forbid  any  other  mode  of  com- 
bat as  an  irremissible  crime  against  the  es- 
sential laws  of  the  species.  At  the  end  of  a 
few  generations,  we  should  thus  succeed  in 
spreading  and  putting  into  force  a  sort  of 
panic-stricken  respect  of  human  life.  And 
how  prompt  and  how  exactly  in  accordance 
with  nature's  wishes  would  be  the  selection 
brought  about  by  the  intensive  practice  of 
pugilism,  in  which  all  the  hopes  of  military 
glory  would  be  centred.  Now  selection  is, 
after  all,  the  only  really  important  thing 
that  claims  our  preoccupation;  it  is  the  first, 
the  greatest  and  the  most  eternal  of  our  du- 
ties towards  the  race. 


203 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

II 

Meanwhile,  the  study  of  boxing  gives  us 
excellent  lessons  in  humility  and  throws  a 
somewhat  alarming  light  upon  the  for- 
feiture of  some  of  our  most  valuable  in- 
stincts. We  soon  perceive  that,  in  all  that 
concerns  the  use  of  our  limbs — agility,  dex- 
terity, muscular  strength,  resistance  to  pain 
— we  have  sunk  to  the  lowest  rank  of  the 
mammals  or  the  batrachians.  From  this 
point  of  view,  in  a  well-conceived  hierarchy, 
we  should  be  entitled  to  a  modest  place  be- 
tween the  frog  and  the  sheep.  The  kick  of 
the  horse,  the  butt  of  the  bull,  the  bite  of 
the  dog,  are  mechanically  and  anatomically 
perfect.  It  would  be  impossible  to  im- 
prove, by  the  most  learned  lessons,  their  in- 
stinctive manner  of  using  their  natural 
weapons.  But  we,  the  "Hominidae,"  the 
proudest  of  the  primates,  do  not  know  how 
to  strike  a  blow  with  our  fist !    We  do  not 

204 


In   Praise  of  the  Fist 

even  know  which  exactly  is  the  weapon  of 
our  kind!  Look  at  two  draymen,  two 
peasants  who  come  to  blows :  nothing  could 
be  more  pitiable.  After  a  copious  and  dila- 
tory broadside  of  insults  and  threats,  they 
seize  each  other  by  the  throat  and  hair, 
make  play  with  their  feet,  with  their  knees, 
at  random,  bite  each  other,  scratch  each 
other,  get  entangled  in  their  motionless 
rage,  dare  not  leave  go  and,  if  one  of  them 
succeed  in  releasing  an  arm,  he  strikes  out 
blindly  and  most  often  into  space  a  series  of 
hurried,  stunted  and  sputtering  little  blows ; 
and  the  combat  would  never  end  if  the 
treacherous  knife,  evoked  by  the  shame 
of  the  incongruous  sight,  did  not  suddenly, 
almost  spontaneously  leap  from  the  pocket 
of  one  of  the  two. 

On  the  other  hand,  watch  two  pugilists: 
no  useless  words,  no  gropings,  no  anger; 
the  calmness  of  two  certainties  that  know 

what  lies  before  them.  The  athletic  attitude 

205 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

of  the  guard,  one  of  the  finest  of  which 
the  male  body  is  capable,  logically  exhibits 
all  the  muscles  of  the  organism  to  the 
best  advantage.  From  head  to  foot,  not  a 
particle  of  strength  can  now  go  astray. 
Every  one  of  them  has  its  pole  in  one  or 
other  of  the  two  massive  fists  charged  to 
the  full  with  energy.  And  the  noble  sim- 
plicity of  the  attack!  Three  blows,  no 
more,  the  fruits  of  secular  experience, 
mathematically  exhaust  the  thousand  use- 
less possibilities  hazarded  by  the  uninitiated. 
Three  synthetic,  irresistible,  unimprovable 
blows.  As  soon  as  one  of  them  frankly 
touches  the  adversary,  the  fight  is  ended,  to 
the  complete  satisfaction  of  the  conqueror, 
who  triumphs  so  incontestably  that  he  has 
no  wish  to  abuse  his  victory,  and  with  no 
dangerous  hurt  to  the  conquered,  who  is 
simply  reduced  to  impotence  and  uncon- 
sciousness during  the  time  needed  for  all  ill- 
will  to  evaporate.     Soon  after,  the  beaten 

206 


In   Praise  of  the  Fist 

man  will  rise  to  his  feet  with  no  lasting 
damage,  because  the  resistance  of  his  bones 
and  his  organs  is  strictly  and  naturally  pro- 
portioned to  the  power  of  the  human 
weapon  that  has  struck  him  and  brought 
him  to  the  ground. 


Ill 

It  may  seem  paradoxical,  but  the  fact  is 
easily  established  that  the  science  of  boxing, 
in  those  countries  where  it  is  generally 
practised  and  cultivated,  becomes  a  pledge 
of  peace  and  gentleness.  Our  aggressive 
nervousness,  our  watchful  susceptibility, 
that  sort  of  perpetual  state  of  alarm  in 
which  our  jealous  vanity  moves,  all  these 
arise,  at  bottom,  from  the  sense  of  our 
weakness  and  of  our  physical  inferiority, 
which  toil  as  best  they  may  to  overawe, 
with  a  proud  and  irritable  mask,  the  men, 
often  churlish,  unjust  and  malevolent,  that 

207 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

surround  us  The  more  that  we  feel  our- 
selves disarmed  in  the  face  of  attack,  the 
more  are  we  tortured  by  the  longing  to 
prove  to  others  and  to  persuade  ourselves 
that  no  one  attacks  with  impunity.  Cour- 
age becomes  the  more  touchy,  the  more  in- 
tractable in  proportion  as  our  anxiously-ter- 
rified instinct,  cowering  within  the  body  that 
is  to  receive  the  blows,  asks  itself  how  the 
bout  will  end.  What  will  this  poor  prudent 
instinct  do  if  the  crisis  goes  badly?  It  is 
upon  our  instinct  that  we  rely  in  the  hour  of 
danger.  Upon  our  instinct  devolve  the 
anxiety  of  the  attack,  the  care  of  the  de- 
fence. But  we  have  so  often  in  daily  life 
dismissed  it  from  the  control  of  affairs  and 
from  the  supreme  council  that,  when  its 
name  is  called,  it  comes  forth  from 
its  retreat  like  one  grown  old  in  captivity 
and  suddenly  dazzled  by  the  light  of  day. 
What  resolution  will  it  take?  Where  is  it 
to  strike :  at  the  eyes,  the  stomach,  the  nose, 

208 


In   Praise  of  the  Fist 

the  temples,  the  throat  ?  And  what  weapon 
is  it  to  choose :  the  feet,  the  teeth,  the  hand, 
the  elbow,  or  the  nails?  It  no  longer 
knows;  it  wanders  about  its  poor  dwelling, 
which  is  about  to  be  defaced;  and,  while, 
dotingly,  it  pulls  them  by  the  sleeve,  cour- 
age, pride,  vanity,  spirit,  self-esteem,  all  the 
great  and  splendid,  but  irresponsible  lords 
envenom  the  stubborn  quarrel,  which  at 
last,  after  numberless  and  grotesque  eva- 
sions, ends  in  an  unskilful  exchange  of 
clamorous,  blind,  ataxic  thumps,  hybrid  and 
plaintive,  piteous  and  puerile  and  indefi- 
nitely impotent. 

He,  on  the  contrary,  who  knows  the  source 
of  justice  which  he  holds  in  his  two  closed 
fists  has  no  need  for  self-persuasion. 
Once  and  for  all,  he  knows.  Longanimity 
emanates  like  a  peaceful  flower  from  his 
ideal,  but  certain  victory.  The  grossest 
insult  cannot  impair  his  indulgent  smile. 
Peaceably  he  awaits  the  first  act  of  violence 

209 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

and  is  able  to  say  to  all  and  any  that 
offend  him,  "Thus  far  shall  you  go."  A 
single  magic  movement  stops  the  insolence. 
Why  make  this  movement?  He  ceases  even 
to  think  of  it,  so  certain  is  its  efficacy.  And 
it  is  with  a  sense  of  shame,  as  of  one 
striking  a  defenceless  child,  that,  in  the 
last  extremity,  he  at  length  resolves  to 
raise  against  the  most  powerful  brute  the 
sovereign  hand  that  regrets  beforehand  its 
too-easy  victory. 


210 


THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  IN- 
JURIES 


THE  FORGIVENESS  OF  INJURIES 


IT  is  not  unprofitable  to  examine  from 
time  to  time  the  meaning  of  certain  words 
which  clothe  in  an  unchangeable  garment 
thoughts  that  have  themselves  become 
transmuted. 

To  take  for  instance  the  word  "forgive," 
which  appears,  at  first  sight,  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  language:  does  this 
word  still,  did  it  ever  possess  the  sense  of 
almost  divine  amnesty  which  we  assign  to 
it?  Is  it  not  one  of  the  terms  that  best  set 
forth  the  good-will  of  men,  inasmuch  as  it 
contains  an  ideal  that  has  never  been  real- 
ised? When  we  say  to  one  who  has  in- 
jured us,  "I  forgive  you  and  all  is  forgot- 
ten," how  much  truth  is  there  at  the  bottom 

213 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

of  this  speech?  At  most,  this,  which  is  the 
only  engagement  into  which  we  can  enter: 
"I  shall  not  try  to  harm  you  in  my  turn." 
The  remainder,  which  we  believe  ourselves 
to  be  promising,  does  not  depend  upon  our 
own  will.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  forget 
the  wrong  that  has  been  done  us,  because 
the  profoundest  of  our  instincts,  that  of 
self-preservation,  has  a  direct  interest  in  re- 
membering it. 

The  man  who,  at  a  given  moment,  finds 
his  way  into  our  lives  is  never  known  to 
us  as  he  is.  For  us  he  is  only  an  image 
which  he  himself  outlines  in  our  memory. 
It  is  quite  true  that  the  life  that  animates 
him  has  an  indefinable,  but  powerful  self- 
revealing  face.  It  conveys  a  host  of 
promises,  which  are  probably  deeper  and 
more  sincere  than  the  words  or  actions 
that  will  erelong  belie  them.  But  this 
great  sign  has  little  more  than  an  ideal 
value.      We    are    in    a    world    wherein, 

214 


The   Forgiveness  of  Injuries 

either  through  force  of  circumstances  or 
as  the  result  of  an  initial  error,  very 
few  beings  live  in  accordance  with  the  truth 
which  their  presence  there  foretells.  At 
long  last,  our  fretful  experience  teaches 
us  to  take  no  further  account  of  this  too 
mysterious  face.  A  plain,  hard  mask  covers 
it  and  bears  the  impress  of  all  the  acts  and 
deeds  that  have  affected  us.  Kindnesses 
illumine  it  with  attractive  and  delicate 
colours,  whereas  offences  channel  it  with 
deep  grooves.  In  reality,  it  is  only  under 
this  mask,  modelled  according  to  the  recol- 
lection of  pleasures  or  cares,  that  we  per- 
ceive the  man  who  approaches  us;  and  to 
say  to  him,  if  he  have  offended  us,  that  we 
forgive  him  is  tantamount  to  telling  him 
that  we  do  not  recognise  him. 


215 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

II 

It  is  a  question  of  knowing  what  influence 
this  inevitable  recognition  will  have  upon 
our  relations  with  the  man  who  has  injured 
us.  In  this,  as  in  so  many  other  respects, 
as  soon  as  our  good-will  is  roused,  its  first, 
as  yet  unconscious  steps  bring  it  back  to  the 
old  road  of  the  religious  ideal.  At  the  sum- 
mit of  this  ideal,  we  might  set  up,  as  a  sym- 
bol, the  legendary  group  of  the  Christian 
woman  burying,  at  the  risk  of  her  life,  the 
execrated  remains  of  Nero.  There  is  no 
denying  that  the  action  of  this  woman  is 
greater  and  goes  farther  beyond  human  rea- 
son than  the  action  of  Antigone,  which 
dominates  pagan  antiquity.  Nevertheless, 
it  does  not  exhaust  the  limits  of  Christian 
forgiveness.  Suppose  that  Nero  be  not 
dead,  but  staggering  on  the  last  confines  of 
life  and  that  an  heroic  rescue  alone  can 
save  him.    The  Christian  will  owe  him  this 

216 


The   Forgiveness  of  Injuries 

rescue,  even  though  she  know  for  certain 
that  the  life  which  she  is  restoring  to  him 
will,  at  the  same  time,  bring  back  the  perse- 
cution. She  can  rise  higher  still:  imagine 
that  she  have  to  choose  in  the  same  moment 
of  anguish  between  her  brother  and  the 
enemy  who  will  doom  her  to  destruction. 
She  will  reach  the  topmost  summit  only  by 
preferring  the  enemy. 

Ill 

Of  this  ideal,  which  is  sublime  even  where 
an  infinite  reward  for  it  is  taken  into  ac- 
count, what  are  we  to  think  in  a  world  that 
looks  for  nothing  in  another  world?  At 
which  of  the  three  superhuman  moments 
shall  we  call  him  mad  who  flings  himself 
into  one  of  those  three  abysses  of  forgive- 
ness? We  shall  even  to  this  day  find  a 
few  traces  of   footsteps  around   the  first; 

but  no  one  will  now  stray  around  the  two 

217 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

others.  Let  us  admit  that  we  have  here 
a  sort  of  heroic  march  of  faith  which  is 
no  longer  possible;  but,  taking  away  faith, 
there  nevertheless  remains,  even  in  the  un- 
reason of  that  ideal,  something  human  that 
is  as  it  were  a  presentiment  of  what  man 
would  like  to  do  if  life  were  not  so  cruel. 

And  let  us  not  think  that  instances  of 
this  kind,  taken  from  the  farthest  ends  of 
imagination,  are  idle  or  absurd.  Existence 
constantly  brings  before  us  equivalents  that 
are  less  tragic,  but  no  less  difficult;  and 
the  solution  of  the  humblest  cases  of  con- 
science depends  upon  the  spirit  which  pre- 
sides over  that  of  the  loftiest.  All  that 
we  imagine  on  a  large  scale  will  end  by 
being  realised  on  a  small;  and  upon  the 
choice  which  we  would  make  on  the 
mountain  depends  exactly  that  which  we 
will  make  in  the  valley. 


218 


The  Forgiveness  of  Injuries 

IV 

Moreover,  we  can  learn  to  forgive  as 
completely  as  the  Christian.  We  are  no 
more  prisoners  than  he  of  this  world  which 
we  see  with  the  eyes  in  our  head.  We  need 
only  an  effort  similar  to  his,  but  directed 
towards  other  gates,  in  order  to  escape 
from  it.  The  Christian,  just  like  ourselves, 
did  not  forget  the  injury;  he  did  not 
attempt  the  impossible ;  but  he  first  pro- 
ceeded to  drown  any  desire  for  revenge 
in  the  divine  immensity.  This  divine  im- 
mensity, more  closely  considered,  is  not 
very  different  from  our  own.  Both,  in 
reality,  are  but  the  feeling  of  the  nameless 
immensity  wherein  we  struggle.  Religion 
raised  every  soul  mechanically,  so  to  speak, 
to  the  heights  which  we  ought  to  reach 
by  means  of  our  own  strength.  But,  as  most 
of  the   souls  which   it  drew   thither  were 

as  yet  blind,  it  made  no  vain  endeavour  to 

219 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

give  them  an  idea  of  the  truths  which  we 
perceive  from  those  heights.  They  would 
not  have  understood  them.  It  contented 
itself  with  describing  to  them  pictures  ap- 
propriate and  familiar  to  their  blindness, 
pictures  which,  for  very  different  reasons, 
produced  nearly  the  same  effects  as  the  real 
vision  that  strikes  us  at  present.  "We  must 
forgive  offences  because  God  wishes  it  and 
has  Himself  set  the  most  complete  example 
of  forgiveness  that  it  is  possible  to  imag- 
ine." This  command,  which  we  can  fol- 
low without  opening  our  eyes,  is  exactly  the 
same  as  that  given  to  us  by  the  needs  and 
the  profound  innocence  of  all  life  at  the 
moment  when  we  contemplate  them  from 
a  sufficient  height.  And,  if  this  latter  com- 
mand does  not,  like  the  first,  go  so  far  as 
to  urge  us  to  prefer  our  enemy  because  he  is 
our  enemy,  this  is  not  to  say  that  it  is  less 
sublime,  but  that  it  addresses  hearts  which 
are  more   disinterested   and  minds  which 

220 


The  Forgiveness  of  Injuries 

have  learnt  no  longer  to  appraise  an  ideal 
solely  according  as  to  whether  it  be  more  or 
less  difficult  of  attainment.  In  sacrifice,  for 
instance,  in  penance,  in  mortification,  there 
are,  in  this  way,  a  whole  series  of  spiritual 
victories  which  are  more  and  more  painful, 
but  which  are  not  really  higher,  because 
they  rise  not  in  the  human  atmosphere,  but 
in  the  void  above,  where  they  shine  not 
only  without  necessity,  but  often  in  a  very 
hurtful  fashion.  The  man  who  juggles 
with  balls  of  fire  on  the  point  of  a  steeple 
is  also  doing  a  very  difficult  thing;  yet 
no  one  dreams  of  comparing  his  useless 
courage  with  the  devotion,  nearly  always 
less  dangerous  though  it  be,  of  the  man 
who  flings  himself  into  the  water  or  the 
flames  to  save  a  child.  In  any  case — and 
perhaps  more  efficaciously  than  the  other 
— the  command  of  which  we  were  speaking 
dispels  all  hatred,  for  it  no  longer  springs 
from  a  foreign  will,  it  is  born  within  our- 


221 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

selves  at  the  sight  of  an  immense  spectacle 
in  which  men's  actions  assume  their  real 
place  and  meaning.  There  is  no  more  ill- 
will,  ingratitude,  injustice  or  perversity, 
there  is  not  even  any  more  selfishness,  in 
the  magnificent  and  boundless  night  wherein 
poor  beings  move,  guided  by  a  darkness 
which  each  of  them  follows  in  exceeding 
good  faith,  believing  that  he  is  fulfilling  a 
duty  or  exercising  a  right. 

V 

Let  us  not  fear  lest  this  vision,  together 
with  so  many  others  which  are  grander 
and  no  less  exact  and  which  should  always 
be  present  to  our  eyes,  let  us  not  fear  lest 
it  should  disarm  us  and  make  victims  or 
dupes  of  us  in  a  life  of  vaster  and  harsher 
realities.  There  are  very  few  among  us 
that  have  need  to  strengthen  their  means 
of  defence,  to  whet  their  prudence,  their 

222 


The   Forgiveness  of  Injuries 

mistrust  or  their  selfishness.  Life's  instinct 
and  experience  provide  for  this  but  too 
lavishly.  We  are  never  in  danger  of  losing 
our  equilibrium  on  the  side  opposed  to  our 
petty  daily  interests.  All  the  efforts  of  a 
watchful  thought  suffice  only  with  great 
difficulty  to  keep  us  erect.  But  it  is  no 
matter  for  indifference  to  others  and  espe- 
cially to  ourselves  whether  our  movements 
of  attack  and  defence  are  outlined  against 
the  dull  background  of  hatred,  contempt 
and  disenchantment  or  against  the  trans- 
parent horizon  of  indulgence  and  of  the 
silent  forgiveness  that  explains  and  under- 
stands. Above  all,  as  the  years  pass,  let 
us  keep  to  the  humble  lessons  of  experience. 
There  is  in  these  lessons  a  dull  and  heavy 
part  that  belongs  by  right  to  instinct  and 
descends  to  the  necessary  clay-soil  of  life. 
There  is  no  need  to  occupy  ourselves  with 
it:  it  buds  and  multiplies  prodigiously  in 

the  unconscious.     But  there  is  a  purer  and 

223 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

more  subtle  part  which  we  must  learn  to 
catch  and  hold  before  it  evaporates  in  space. 
Every  act  allows  of  as  many  different  in- 
terpretations as  there  are  diverse  forces 
in  our  intelligence.  The  lowest  of  them 
appear  at  first  the  simplest,  the  most  natural 
and  just,  because  they  are  the  first  to  come, 
the  idlest,  those  requiring  the  least  effort. 
If  we  do  not  struggle  without  respite 
against  their  cunning  and  familiar  encroach- 
ment, little  by  little  they  devour  and  poison 
all  the  hopes,  all  the  beliefs  out  of  which 
our  youth  had  formed  the  noblest  and  most 
fruitful  regions  of  our  mind.  Soon  there 
would  remain  to  us,  towards  the  end  of  our 
days,  nothing  but  the  most  miserable  resi- 
due of  wisdom.  It  is  meet,  therefore,  that 
the  loftiest  interpretation  which  we  can 
give  of  the  facts  that  hustle  us  at  every 
moment  should  rise  in  proportion  as  the 
gross  treasure  of  the  practical  sense  of 
existence  accumulates.     According  as  our 

224 


The  Forgiveness  of  Injuries 

sense  of  life  increases  in  the  soil  by  the 
roots,  it  is  indispensable  that  it  should 
ascend  in  the  light  by  the  fruits  and  flowers. 
It  is  necessary  that  an  ever-vigilant  thought 
should  incessantly  lift  up,  air  and  quicken 
the  dead-weight  of  the  years.  Moreover, 
experience,  seemingly  so  positive,  so  prac- 
tical, so  easy-going,  so  tranquil,  so  in- 
genuous and  so  sincere,  knows  full  well  that 
it  hides  some  essential  thing  from  us;  and, 
had  we  the  strength  to  drive  it  to  its  most 
secret  retrenchments,  we  should  end  to  a 
certainty  by  wringing  from  it  the  supreme 
avowal  that,  upon  the  upshot  and  when  all 
and  everything  is  said,  the  loftiest  interpre- 
tation is  invariably  the  truest. 


225 


CONCERNING  "KING  LEAR" 


CONCERNING  "KING  LEAR" 


IT  is  easy  to  prove  that,  of  late  years  and 
especially  since  the  beginning  of  the 
great  romantic  period,  the  realm  of  poetry 
— which  had  hardly  been  touched  upon 
since  the  definite  loss  of  the  vast,  but  unin- 
habitable provinces  of  the  epic  poem — has 
gradually  shrunk  in  dimensions  and  become 
actually  reduced  to  a  few  isolated  towns  in 
the  mountain.  It  will  probably  continue 
there,  long-lived  and  impregnable,  and  will 
gain  in  purity  and  intensity  all  that  it  has 
lost  elsewhere  in  extent  and  abundance. 
Little  by  little  it  will  strip  itself  of  its  vain 
didactic,  descriptive  and  narrative  orna- 
ments, soon  to  be  itself  alone,  that  is  to  say 
the  only  voice  that  can  reveal  to  us  the 

229 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

things  which  silence  hides  from  us,  which 
human  speech  no  longer  utters  and  which 
music  does  not  yet  express. 

Lyric  poetry  will  always  exist:  it  is  im- 
mortal, because  it  is  necessary.  But  what 
fate  has  the  future  or  even  the  present  in 
store,  I  will  not  say  for  the  dramatist  or 
playwright,  but  for  the  tragic  poet  proper, 
for  the  writer  who  strives  to  maintain  a 
certain  lyrical  quality  in  his  work  by  repre- 
senting in  it  things  greater  and  finer  than 
the  things  of  real  life? 

It  is  certain  that  the  lyric  tragedy  of  the 
Greeks,  that  classical  tragedy  as  conceived 
by  Corneille  and  Racine,  that  the  romantic 
tragedy  of  the  Germans  and  Victor  Hugo 
all  derive  their  poetry  from  sources  that  are 
definitely  dried  up.  The  great  drama  of 
the  crowds,  in  which  it  was  believed  that  an 
unknown  and  inexhaustible  source  had  been 
discovered,  has  hitherto  yielded  only 
mediocre  and  indifferent  results.     And  the 

230 


Concerning  "King  Lear" 

new  mysteries  of  our  modern  life,  which 
have  taken  the  place  of  all  the  others  and  in 
the  direction  of  which  Ibsen  attempted  cer- 
tain excavations,  these  mysteries  have  been 
for  too  short  a  time  in  direct  contact  with 
man  to  erect  and  visibly  and  efficaciously 
to  govern  the  words  and  actions  of  the 
character  of  a  play.  And  yet  there  is  no 
disguising  the  fact  and  the  poetic  instinct  of 
humanity  has  always  felt  its  presentiment: 
a  drama  is  not  really  true  until  it  is  greater 
and  finer  than  life. 

II 

Let  us,  in  the  interval  preceding  the  time 
when  the  poets  shall  know  whither  to  turn 
their  steps,  examine  one  of  the  most  famous 
examples  of  those  dramas  which  enlarge  the 
truth  without  violating  it,  one  of  those  rare 
dramas  which,  after  more  than  three  cen- 
turies, still  remain  green  and  living  in  all 

231 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

their  parts :  I  allude  to  Shakspeare's  King 
Lear. 

It  is  safe  to  declare,  as  I  once  said — not 
without  some  little  exaggeration,  for  it  is 
impossible  to  avoid  exaggeration  in  the 
light  and  exquisite  attack  of  fever  which 
seizes  all  Shakspeare's  devoted  admirers 
whenever  one  of  his  masterpieces  is  revived 
— it  is  safe  to  declare,  after  surveying  the 
literatures  of  every  period  and  of  every 
country,  that  the  tragedy  of  the  old  king 
constitutes  the  mightiest,  the  vastest,  the 
most  stirring,  the  most  intense  dramatic 
poem  that  has  ever  been  written.  Were 
we  to  be  asked  from  the  height  of  another 
planet  which  is  the  synthetic  and  represen- 
tative play,  the  archetypal  play  of  the  hu- 
man stage,  the  play  in  which  the  ideal  of 
the  loftiest  scenic  poetry  is  most  fully  real- 
ised, it  seems  to  me  certain  that,  after  due 
deliberation,  all  the  poets  of  our  earth,  the 
best  judges  in  this  exigency,  would  with  one 

232 


Concerning  "King  Lear" 

voice  name  King  Lear.  They  could  only 
for  a  moment  weigh  the  claims  of  two  or 
three  masterpieces  of  the  Greek  stage,  or 
else — for  virtually  Shakspeare  can  be  com- 
pared with  none  save  himself — of  that 
other  miracle  of  his  genius,  the  tragic  story 
of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmark. 

Ill 

Prometheus,  the  Orestes,  CEdipus  Ty- 
rannus  are  wonderful  but  isolated  trees, 
whereas  King  Lear  is  a  marvellous  forest. 
Let  us  admit  that  Shakspeare's  poem  is  less 
clear,  not  so  evident,  not  so  visibly  harmoni- 
ous, not  so  pure  in  outline,  not  so  perfect 
in  the  rather  conventional  sense  of  the 
word ;  let  us  grant  that  it  has  faults  as  enor- 
mous as  its  good  qualities :  this  fact  none  the 
less  remains,  that  it  surpasses  all  the  others 
in  the  mass,  the  rarity,  the  density,  the 
strange  mobility,  the  prodigious  bulk  of  the 

233 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

tragic  beauties  which  it  contains.  I  know 
that  the  total  beauty  of  a  work  is  not  to  be 
estimated  by  weight  or  volume;  that  the 
dimensions  of  a  statue  do  not  necessarily 
bear  a  relation  to  its  aesthetic  value.  Never- 
theless, it  cannot  be  denied  that  abundance, 
variety  and  ampleness  add  certain  vital, 
unaccustomed  elements  to  beauty;  that  it  is 
easier  to  be  successful  with  one  statue  of 
middling  size  and  of  a  calm  movement  than 
with  a  group  of  twenty  statues  of  superhu- 
man dimensions,  endowed  with  passionate 
and  yet  coordinate  gestures;  that  it  is  less 
difficult  to  write  one  tragic  and  mighty  act 
in  which  three  or  four  persons  play  their 
parts  than  to  write  five  which  are  filled  with 
a  whole  moving  crowd  and  which  maintain 
that  same  tragic  and  powerful  note  on  an 
equal  level  during  a  period  five  times  as 
long  as  the  other.  Well,  by  the  side  of 
King  Lear}  the  longest  Greek  tragedies 
are  little  more  than  plays  in  one  act. 

234 


Concerning  "King  Lear" 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  try  to  compare 
it  with  Hamlet,  we  shall  probably  find  that 
its  thought  is  less  active,  less  acute,  less  pro- 
found, less  quivering,  less  prophetic.  By 
way  of  compensation,  however,  how  much 
more  vigorous,  massive  and  irresistible  does 
the  spirit  of  the  work  appear!  Certain 
clusters,  certain  rays  of  light  on  the  plat- 
form of  Elsinore  reach  and,  for  a  moment, 
illumine,  like  gleams  from  beyond  the  tomb, 
more  inaccessible  darknesses;  but  here  the 
column  of  smoke  and  flame  lights  up  in  a 
permanent  and  uniform  manner  a  whole 
stretch  of  the  night.  The  subject  is  simpler, 
more  general  and  more  normally  human, 
the  colouring  more  monotonous,  but  more 
majestically  and  more  harmoniously  su- 
perb, the  intensity  more  constant  and  more 
widespread,  the  lyricism  more  continuous, 
more  overflowing  and  more  illusive  and  yet 
more  natural,  nearer  to  the  realities  of 
everyday  life,  more  familiarly  stirring,  be- 

235 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

cause  it  springs  not  from  thought,  but  from 
passion,  because  it  surrounds  a  situation 
which,  although  exceptional,  is,  neverthe- 
less, universally  possible,  because  it  does  not 
necessarily  require  a  metaphysical  hero  like 
Hamlet  and  because  it  immediately  affects 
the  primitive  and  almost  invariable  soul  of 
man. 

IV 

Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Prometheus,  the 
Orestes,  CEdipus  belong  to  a  class  of  poems 
which  are  more  exalted  than  the  others  be- 
cause they  are  unfolded  on  a  sort  of  sacred 
mountain  girt  about  by  a  certain  mystery. 
This  is  what,  in  the  hierarchy  of  the  mas- 
terpieces, places  Hamlet  incontestably 
above  Othello,  for  instance,  although 
Othello  is  as  passionately,  as  profoundly 
and,  doubtless,  more  normally  human. 
They  owe  to  this  mountain  which  carries 

them     between     heaven     and     earth     the 

236 


Concerning   "King  Lear" 

best  part  of  their  sombre  and  sublime  power. 
Now,  if  we  examine  the  formation  of  this 
mountain,  we  become  aware  that  the  ele- 
ments which  compose  it  are  borrowed  from 
a  variable  and  arbitrary  supernaturalism; 
it  is  a  "beyond"  of  a  contestable  character 
and  appearance,  which  are  religious  or 
superstitious,  transitory,  therefore,  or  local. 
But — and  this  it  is  that  gives  it  a  place  apart 
among  the  four  or  five  great  dramatic 
poems  of  the  world — in  King  Lear  there  is 
no  supernaturalism  proper.  The  gods,  the  in- 
habitants of  the  great  imaginary  worlds  do 
not  meddle  with  the  action;  fatality  itself  is 
here  quite  inward,  is  no  more  than  passion 
run  mad;  and  yet  the  immense  drama  un- 
ravels its  five  acts  on  a  summit  as  high,  as 
overladen  with  spells,  poetry  and  unwonted 
anxieties  as  though  all  the  traditional  forces 
of  heaven  and  hell  had  vied  in  ardour  to 
superstruct  its  peaks.  The  absurdity  of  the 
original   anecdote    (all   the    great  master- 

237 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

pieces,  being  intended  to  represent  typical 
actions  of  a  necessarily  far-fetched  exclusive 
and  excessive  character,  are  founded  on  a 
more  or  less  absurd  anecdote)  disappears  in 
the  sublime  magnificence  of  the  height  at 
which  it  is  developed.  Study  more  closely 
the  structure  of  that  summit:  it  is  formed 
solely  of  enormous  human  strata,  of 
gigantic  blocks  of  passion,  of  reason,  of 
general  and  almost  familiar  sentiments, 
overthrown,  heaped  up,  superimposed  by 
an  awful  tempest,  but  one  profoundly 
suited  to  all  that  is  most  human  in  human 
nature. 

That  is  why  King  Lear  remains  the  young- 
est of  the  great  tragic  works,  the  only  one 
which  time  has  not  withered.  It  needs  an 
effort  of  our  good-will,  a  forgetting  of  our 
condition  and  of  our  present  certainties  for 
us  to  be  sincerely  and  wholly  stirred  by  the 
spectacle  of  Hamlet,  Macbeth  or  CEdipns. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  wrath,  the  roars  of 

238 


Concerning  "King  Lear" 

pain,  the  prodigious  curses  of  the  old  man, 
of  the  outraged  father  seem  to  issue  from 
our  modern  hearts  and  brains;  they  rise  up 
under  our  own  sky ;  and,  in  respect  of  all  the 
profound  truths  that  form  the  spiritual  and 
sentimental  atmosphere  of  our  planet,  there 
is  nothing  essential  to  be  added  to  them, 
nothing  to  be  withdrawn  from  them.  Were 
Shakspeare  to  return  among  us  upon  earth, 
he  could  no  longer  write  Hamlet  or  Mac- 
beth. He  would  feel  that  the  main  august 
and  gloomy  ideas  upon  which  those  poems 
rest  would  no  longer  carry  them,  whereas 
he  would  not  need  to  alter  a  situation  nor  a 
line  in  King  Lear. 


The  youngest,  the  most  unchangeable  of 
tragedies  is  also  the  most  organically  lyrical 
dramatic  poem  that  was  ever  realised,  the 
only  one  in  the  world  in  which  the  magnifi- 

239 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

cence  of  the  language  does  not  once  impair 
the  probability,  the  naturalness  of  the  dia- 
logue. There  is  not  a  poet  but  knows  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  on  the  stage  to  ally 
beautiful  images  with  natural  expression. 
There  is  no  denying  it:  no  scene  in  the 
mightiest  tragedy  or  in  the  most  hackneyed 
comedy,  as  Alfred  de  Vigny  said,  is  ever 
more  than  a  conversation  between  two  or 
three  people  who  have  met  to  talk  of  their 
affairs.  They  have  therefore  to  talk;  and, 
in  order  to  give  us  that  which  is  the  most 
necessary  illusion  on  the  stage,  the  illusion 
of  reality,  they  must  depart  as  little  as  pos- 
sible from  the  language  employed  in  every- 
day life.  But,  in  this  rather  elementary 
life,  we  hardly  ever  express  in  words  any- 
thing that  is  brilliant  or  profound  in  our 
inner  existence.  If  our  habitual  thoughts 
mingle  with  great  and  beautiful  spectacles, 
with  the  highest  mysteries  of  nature,  they 
remain  within  ourselves  in  a  latent  condition, 

240 


Concerning  "King  Lear" 

in  a  condition  of  dreams,  of  ideas,  of  mute 
feelings  which,  at  the  very  most,  betray 
themselves  sometimes  by  a  word,  a  phrase 
nobler  or  truer  than  those  of  our  probable 
and  usual  conversation.  Now,  the  drama 
being  able  to  express  hardly  anything  that 
would  not  be  expressed  in  life,  it  follows 
that  all  the  higher  part  of  existence  remains 
unformulated  there,  lest  it  should  shatter 
the  indispensable  illusion.  The  poet  has 
therefore  to  choose:  he  will  be  lyrical  or 
merely  eloquent,  but  unreal  (and  this  is 
the  mistake  of  our  classical  tragedies,  of 
the  plays  of  Victor  Hugo  and  of  almost 
all  the  French  and  German  romanticists,  a 
few  scenes  of  Goethe  excepted),  or  else  he 
will  be  natural,  but  dry,  prosaic  and  dull. 
Shakspeare  did  not  escape  the  dangers  of 
this  choice.  In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  for  in- 
stance, and  in  most  of  his  historical  plays, 
he  pours  forth  into  rhetoric  and  incessantly 

sacrifices  to  the  splendour,  to  the  abundance 

241 


The   Measure  of  the   Hours 

of  his  metaphors  the  imperious,  essential 
precision  and  commonplace  of  every  speech 
and  cue. 

VI 

On  the  other  hand,  in  his  great  master- 
pieces he  makes  no  mistake;  but  the  very 
manner  in  which  he  surmounts  the  diffi- 
culty reveals  all  the  gravity  of  the  problem. 
He  achieves  his  end  only  with  the  aid  of 
a  sort  of  subterfuge  to  which  he  always  re- 
sorts. As  it  seems  to  be  accepted  that  a  hero 
who  expresses  his  inner  life  in  all  its  mag- 
nificence cannot  remain  probable  and  human 
on  the  stage  except  on  condition  that  he  be 
represented  as  mad  in  real  life  (for  it  is 
understood  that  here  the  mad  alone  express 
that  hidden  life),  Shakspeare  systemati- 
cally unsettles  the  reason  of  his  pro- 
tagonists and  thus  opens  the  dike  that  held 
captive  the  swollen  lyrical  flood.  Hence- 
forward, he  speaks  freely  by  their  mouths; 

242 


Concerning  "King  Lear" 

and  beauty  invades  the  stage  without  fear- 
ing lest  it  be  told  that  it  is  out  of  place. 
Henceforward,  also,  the  lyricism  of  his 
great  works  is  more  or  less  high,  more  or 
less  wide  in  proportion  to  the  madness  of 
his  hero.  Thus  it  is  intermittent  and  re- 
strained in  Macbeth  and  Othello,  because 
the  hallucinations  of  the  Thane  of  Cawdor 
and  the  rages  of  the  Moor  of  Venice  are  no 
more  than  passional  crises;  it  is  slow  and 
pensive  in  Hamlet,  because  the  madness  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark  is  torpid  and  medi- 
tative; but  no  otherwhere  does  it  overflow 
as  in  King  Lear,  torrential,  uninterrupted 
and  irresistible,  hurling  together,  in  im- 
mense and  miraculous  images,  the  oceans, 
the  forests,  the  tempests  and  the  stars,  be- 
cause the  magnificent  insanity  of  the  dispos- 
sessed and  desperate  old  king  extends  from 
the  first  scene  to  the  very  last. 


243 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OF  THE 
FLOWERS 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OF  THE 
FLOWERS 


I  WISH  merely  to  recall  here  a  few  facts 
known  to  every  botanist.  I  have  made 
not  a  single  discovery  and  my  modest  con- 
tribution is  confined  to  a  few  elementary 
observations.  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  have 
no  intention  of  reviewing  all  the  proofs  of 
intelligence  which  the  plants  give  us.  These 
proofs  are  innumerable  and  continual,  es- 
pecially among  the  flowers,  in  which  the 
effort  of  vegetable  life  towards  light  and 
understanding  is  concentrated. 

Though  there  be  plants  and  flowers  that 
are  awkward  or  unlucky,  there  is  none  that 
is  wholly  devoid  of  wisdom  and  ingenuity. 
All   exert  themselves  to   accomplish   their 

247 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

work,  all  have  the  magnificent  ambition  to 
overrun  and  conquer  the  surface  of  the 
globe  by  endlessly  multiplying  that  form  of 
existence  which  they  represent.  To  attain 
this  object,  they  have,  because  of  the  law 
that  chains  them  to  the  soil,  to  overcome 
difficulties  much  greater  than  those  opposed 
to  the  increase  of  the  animals.  And  there- 
fore the  majority  of  them  have  recourse  to 
combinations,  to  a  machinery,  to  traps 
which,  in  regard  to  such  matters  as  mech- 
anism, ballistics,  aerial  navigation  and  the 
observation  of  insects,  have  often  antici- 
pated the  inventions  and  acquirements  of 
man. 

II 

It  would  be  superfluous  once  more  to  trace 
the  picture  of  the  great  systems  of  floral 
fertilisation:  the  play  of  stamens  and  pistil, 
the  seduction  of  perfumes,  the  appeal  of 
harmonious    and    dazzling    colours,     the 

248 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

concoction  of  nectar,  which  is  absolutely 
useless  to  the  flower  and  is  manufactured 
only  to  attract  and  retain  the  liberator 
from  without,  the  messenger  of  love — bee, 
humble-bee,  fly,  butterfly  or  moth — that  is 
to  bring  to  the  flower  the  kiss  of  the  dis- 
tant, invisible,  motionless  lover.  .   .   . 

This  vegetable  world,  which  to  us  appears 
so  placid,  so  resigned,  in  which  all  seems 
acquiescence,  silence,  obedience,  meditation, 
is,  on  the  contrary,  that  in  which  impatience, 
the  revolt  against  destiny  are  the  most 
vehement  and  stubborn.  The  essential  or- 
gan, the  nutrient  organ  of  the  plant,  its 
root,  attaches  it  indissolubly  to  the  soil.  If 
it  be  difficult  to  discover  among  the  great 
laws  that  oppress  us  that  which  weighs 
heaviest  upon  our  shoulders,  in  the  case  of 
the  plant  there  is  no  doubt :  it  is  the  law  that 
condemns  it  to  immobility  from  its  birth 
to  its  death.  Therefore  it  knows  better 
than    we,    who    disseminate    our    efforts, 

249 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

against  what  first  to  rise  in  revolt.  And  the 
energy  of  its  fixed  idea,  mounting  from  the 
darkness  of  the  roots  to  become  organised 
and  full-blown  in  the  flower,  is  an  incom- 
parable spectacle.  It  exerts  itself  wholly 
with  one  sole  aim:  to  escape  above  from 
the  fatality  below,  to  evade,  to  transgress 
the  heavy  and  sombre  law,  to  set  itself  free, 
to  shatter  the  narrow  sphere,  to  invent  or 
invoke  wings,  to  escape  as  far  as  it  can,  to 
conquer  the  space  in  which  destiny  encloses 
it,  to  approach  another  kingdom,  to  pene- 
trate into  a  moving  and  active  world.  .  .  . 
Is  the  fact  that  it  attains  its  object  not  as 
surprising  as  though  we  were  to  succeed  in 
living  outside  the  time  which  a  different 
destiny  assigns  to  us  or  in  making  our  way 
into  a  universe  freed  from  the  weightiest 
laws  of  matter?  We  shall  see  that  the 
flower  sets  man  a  prodigious  example  of 
insubmission,  courage,  perseverance  and  in- 
genuity.   If  we  had  applied  to  the  removal 

250 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

of  various  necessities  that  crush  us,  such  as 
pain,  old  age  and  death,  one-half  of  the 
energy  displayed  by  any  little  flower  in  our 
gardens,  we  may  well  believe  that  our  lot 
would  be  very  different  from  what  it  is. 

Ill 

This  need  of  movement,  this  craving  for 
space,  among  the  greater  number  of  plants, 
is  manifested  in  both  the  flower  and  the 
fruit.  It  is  easily  explained  in  the  fruit,  or, 
in  any  case,  discloses  only  a  less  complex 
experience  and  foresight.  Contrary  to  that 
which  takes  place  in  the  animal  kingdom 
and  because  of  the  terrible  law  of  absolute 
immobility,  the  chief  and  worst  enemy  of 
the  seed  is  the  paternal  stock.  We  are  in 
a  strange  world,  where  the  parents,  unable 
to  move  from  place  to  place,  know  that 
they  are  condemned  to  starve  or  stifle  their 
offpring.  Every  seed  that  falls  at  the  foot 
of  the  tree  or  plant  is  either  lost  or  doomed 

251 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

to  sprout  in  wretchedness.  Hence  the  im- 
mense effort  to  throw  off  the  yoke  and  con- 
quer space.  Hence  the  marvellous  systems 
of  dissemination,  of  propulsion,  of  naviga- 
tion of  the  air  which  we  find  on  every  side 
in  the  forest  and  the  plain :  among  others, 
to  mention,  in  passing,  but  a  few  of  the 
most  curious,  the  aerial  screw  or  samara  of 
the  Maple;  the  bract  of  the  Lime-tree;  the 
flying-machine  of  the  Thistle,  the  Dande- 
lion and  the  Salsafy;  the  detonating  springs 
of  the  Spurge;  the  extraordinary  squirt  of 
the  Momordica;  the  hooks  of  the  erio- 
philous  plants;  and  a  thousand  other  unex- 
pected and  astounding  pieces  of  mechanism; 
for  there  is  not,  so  to  speak,  a  single  seed 
but  has  invented  for  its  sole  use  a  complete 
method  of  escaping  from  the  maternal 
shade. 

It  would,  in  fact,  be  impossible,  if  one 
had  not  practised  a  little  botany,  to  believe 
the  expenditure  of  imagination  and  genius 

252 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

in  all  the  verdure  that  gladdens  our  eyes. 
Consider,  for  instance,  the  charming  seed- 
pots  of  the  Scarlet  Pimpernel,  the  five  valves 
of  the  Balsam,  the  five  bursting  capsules  of 
the  Geranium.  Do  not  forget,  upon  occa- 
sion, to  examine  the  common  Poppy-head, 
which  we  find  at  any  herbalist's.  This  good, 
big  head  shelters  a  prudence  and  a  fore- 
sight that  deserve  the  highest  praise.  We 
know  that  it  holds  thousands  of  tiny  black 
seeds.  Its  object  is  to  scatter  this  seed  as 
dexterously  and  to  as  great  a  distance  as 
possible.  If  the  capsule  containing  it  were 
to  split,  to  fall  or  to  open  underneath,  the 
precious  black  dust  would  form  but  a  use- 
less heap  at  the  foot  of  the  maternal  stalk. 
But  its  only  outlet  is  through  apertures  con- 
trived right  at  the  top  of  the  capsule,  which, 
when  ripe,  bends  over  on  its  peduncle,  sways 
like  a  censer  at  the  least  breath  of  wind 
and  literally  sows  the  seeds  in  space,  with 
the  very  action  employed  by  the  sower. 

253 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

Shall  I  speak  of  the  seeds  which  provide 
for  their  dissemination  by  birds  and  which, 
to  entice  them,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Mistle- 
toe, the  Juniper,  the  Mountain-ash,  lurk 
inside  a  sweet  husk  ?  We  see  here  displayed 
such  a  powerful  reasoning  faculty,  such  a 
remarkable  understanding  of  final  causes 
that  we  hardly  dare  dwell  upon  the  subject, 
for  fear  of  repeating  the  ingenious  mistakes 
of  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre.  And  yet  the 
facts  can  be  no  otherwise  explained.  The 
sweet  husk  is  of  no  more  use  to  the  seed 
than  the  nectar,  which  attracts  the  bees,  is 
to  the  flower.  The  bird  eats  the  fruit  be- 
cause it  is  sweet  and,  at  the  same  time, 
swallows  the  seed,  which  is  indigestible. 
He  flies  away  and,  soon  after,  ejects  the 
seed  in  the  same  condition  in  which  he  has 

received  it,  but  stripped  of  its  case  and 
ready  to   sprout   far   from  the   attendant 

dangers  of  its  birthplace. 


254 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

IV 

But  let  us  return  to  simpler  contrivances. 
Pick  a  blade  of  grass  by  the  roadside,  from 
the  first  tuft  that  offers,  and  you  will  per- 
ceive an  independent,  indefatigable,  unex- 
pected little  intelligence  at  work.  Here,  for 
instance,  are  two  poor  creeping  plants  which 
you  have  met  a  thousand  times  on  your 
walks,  for  we  find  them  in  every  spot,  down 
to  the  most  ungrateful  corners  to  which  a 
pinch  of  soil  has  strayed.  They  are  two 
varieties  of  wild  Lucern  or  Medick  (Medi- 
cago) ,  two  "ill  weeds"  in  the  humblest 
sense  of  the  word.  One  bears  a  reddish 
flower,  the  other  a  little  yellow  ball  the 
size  of  a  pea.  To  see  them  crawling  and 
hiding  among  the  proud  grasses,  one  would 
never  suspect  that,  long  before  the  illustri- 
ous geometrician  and  physician  of  Syracuse, 
they  had  discovered  the  Archimedean  screw 
and  endeavoured  to  apply  it  not  to  the  rais- 

255 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

ing  of  liquids,  but  to  the  art  of  flying.  They 
lodge  their  seeds  in  light  spirals  with  three 
or  four  convolutions,  admirably  constructed 
to  delay  their  fall  and,  consequently,  with 
the  help  of  the  wind,  to  prolong  their  jour- 
ney through  the  air.     One  of  them,  the 
yellow,  has  even  improved  upon  the  appa- 
ratus of  the  red  by  furnishing  the  edges  of 
the  spiral  with  a  double  row  of  points,  with 
the  evident  intention  of  hooking  it,  on  its 
passage,  to  either  the  clothes  of  the  pedes- 
trians or  the  fleece  of  the  animals.  It  clearly 
hopes  to  add  the  advantages  of  eriophily — 
that  is  to  say  the  dissemination  of  seed  by 
sheep,  goats,  rabbits  and  so  on — to  those  of 
anemophily,  or  dissemination  by  the  wind. 
The  most  touching  side  of  this  great  effort 
is  its  futility.     The  poor  red  and  yellow 
Lucerns  have  blundered.     Their  remark- 
able screws  are  of  no  use  to  them:  they 
could  act  only  if  they  fell  from  a  certain 
height,  from  the  top  of  some  lofty  tree  or 

256 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

tall  Graminea;  but,  constructed  as  they  are 
on  the  level  of  the  grass,  they  have  hardly 
taken  a  quarter  of  a  turn  before  already 
they  touch  the  ground.  We  have  here  a 
curious  instance  of  the  mistakes,  the  grop- 
ings,  the  experiments  and  the  frequent  little 
miscalculations  of  nature;  for  only  those 
who  have  studied  nature  but  very  little  will 
maintain  that  she  never  errs. 

Let  us  observe,  in  passing,  that  other 
varieties  of  the  Lucern  (not  to  speak  of  the 
Clover,  another  papilionaceous  Leguminos  a, 
almost  identical  with  that  of  which  we  are 
now  speaking)  have  not  adopted  this  flying 
apparatus,  but  keep  to  the  primitive  meth- 
ods of  the  pod.  In  one  of  them,  the  Medx- 
cago  aurantiaca,  we  very  clearly  perceive 
the  transition  from  the  twisted  pod  to  the 
screw  or  spiral.  Another  variety,  the 
Medicago  scutellata,  or  Snail-medick, 
rounds  its  screw  in  the  form  of  a  ball.  It 
would  seem,  therefore,  that  we  are  assist- 

257 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

ing  at  the  stimulating  spectacle  of  a  sort 
of  work  of  invention,  at  the  attempts  of  a 
family  that  has  not  yet  settled  its  destiny 
and  is  seeking  for  the  best  way  of  ensuring 
its  future.  Was  it  not  perhaps,  in  the 
course  of  this  search  that,  having  been  de- 
ceived in  the  spiral,  the  yellow  Lucern 
added  points  or  hooks  to  it,  saying  to  itself, 
not  unreasonably,  that,  since  its  leaves 
attract  the  sheep,  it  is  inevitable  and  right 
that  the  sheep  should  assume  the  care  of 
its  progeny  ?  And,  lastly,  is  it  not  thanks  to 
this  new  effort  and  to  this  happy  thought 
that  the  Lucern  with  the  yellow  flowers  is 
infinitely  more  widely  distributed  than  its 
sturdier  cousin  whose  flowers  are  red? 


It  is  not  only  in  the  seed  or  the  flower,  but 
in  the  whole  plant,  leaves,  stalks  and  roots, 
that  we  discover,  if  we  stoop  for  a  moment 

258 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

over  their  humble  work,  many  traces  of  a 
prudent  and  quick  intelligence.  Think  of 
the  magnificent  struggle  towards  the  light 
of  the  thwarted  branches,  or  the  ingenious 
and  courageous  strife  of  trees  in  danger. 
As  for  myself,  I  shall  never  forget  the  ad- 
mirable example  of  heroism  given  me  the 
other  day  in  Provence,  in  the  wild  and  de- 
lightful gorges  of  the  Loup,  all  fragrant 
with  violets,  by  a  huge  centenarian  Laurel- 
tree.  It  was  easy  to  read  on  its  twisted 
and,  so  to  speak,  writhing  trunk  the  whole 
drama  of  its  hard  and  tenacious  life.  A  bird 
or  the  wind,  masters  of  destiny  both,  had 
carried  the  seed  to  the  flank  of  the  rock, 
which  was  as  perpendicular  as  an  iron  cur- 
tain; and  the  tree  was  born  there,  two 
hundred  yards  above  the  torrent,  inacces- 
sible and  solitary,  among  the  burning  and 
barren  stones.  From  the  first  hour,  it  had 
sent  its  blind  roots  on  a  long  and  painful 
search  for  precarious  water  and  soil.     But 

259 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

this  was  only  the  hereditary  care  of  a  species 
that  knows  the  aridity  of  the  South.  The 
young  stem  had  to  solve  a  much  graver 
and  more  unexpected  problem:  it  started 
from  a  vertical  plane,  so  that  its  top,  in- 
stead of  rising  towards  the  sky,  bent  down 
over  the  gulf.  It  was  obliged,  therefore, 
notwithstanding  the  increasing  weight  of 
its  branches,  to  correct  the  first  flight,  stub- 
bornly to  bend  its  disconcerted  trunk  in  the 
form  of  an  elbow  close  to  the  rock  and  thus, 
like  a  swimmer  who  throws  back  his  head, 
by  means  of  an  incessant  will,  tension  and 
contraction  to  hold  its  heavy  crown  of 
leaves  straight  up  into  the  sky. 
Thenceforward,  all  the  preoccupations,  all 
the  energy,  all  the  free  and  conscious  genius 
of  the  plant  had  centred  around  that  vital 
knot.  The  monstrous,  hypertrophied  elbow 
revealed,  one  by  one,  the  successive  solici- 
tudes of  a  kind  of  thought  that  knew  how 
to  profit  by  the  warnings  which  it  received 

260 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

from  the  rains  and  the  storms.  Year  by 
year,  the  leafy  dome  grew  heavier,  with  no 
other  care  than  to  spread  itself  out  in  the 
light  and  heat,  while  a  hidden  canker 
gnawed  deep  into  the  tragic  arm  that  sup- 
ported it  in  space.  Then,  obeying  I  know 
not  what  order  of  the  instinct,  two  stout 
roots,  two  fibrous  cables,  issuing  from  the 
trunk  at  more  than  two  feet  above  the 
elbow,  had  come  to  moor  it  to  the  granite 
wall.  Had  they  really  been  evoked  by  the 
tree's  distress  or  were  they  perhaps  wait- 
ing providently,  from  the  first  day,  for  the 
acute  hour  of  danger,  in  order  to  increase 
the  value  of  their  assistance?  Was  it  only 
a  happy  accident?  What  human  eye  will 
ever  assist  at  these  silent  dramas,  which  are 
all  too  long  for  our  short  lives?1 

1  Let  us  compare  with  this  the  act  of  intelligence  of 
another  root,  whose  exploits  are  related  by  Brandis  in 
his  Ueber  Leben  und  Polaritat.  In  penetrating  into 
the  earth,  it  had  come  upon  an  old  boot-sole  :  in  order 
to  cross  this  obstacle,  which,  apparently,  the  root  was 

261 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

VI 

Among  the  vegetals  that  give  the  most 
striking  proofs  of  intelligence  and  initiative, 
the  plants  which  might  be  described  as  "ani- 
mated" or  "sentient"  deserve  to  be  studied 
in  detail.  I  will  do  no  more  than  recall  the 
delightful  nervous  terrors  of  the  Sensitive- 
plant,  the  shrinking  Mimosa  with  which  we 
are  all  acquainted.  There  are  other  herbs 
endowed  with  spontaneous  movements  that 
are  not  so  well  known,  notably  the  Hedysa- 
rea}  among  which  the  Hedysarum  gyrans, 
or  Moving-plant,  acts  in  a  very  restless  and 
surprising  fashion.  This  little  Leguminosa, 
which  is  a  native  of  Bengal,  but  often 
cultivated  in  our  hothouses,  performs  a 
sort  of  perpetual   and   intricate   dance    in 

the  first  of  its  kind  to  find  upon  its  road,  it  subdivided 
itself  into  as  many  parts  as  there  were  holes  left  in  the 
sole  by  the  stitching  needle  ;  then,  when  the  obstacle 
was  overcome,  it  came  together  again  and  united  all 
its  divided  radicles  into  a  single  homogeneous  tap-root. 

262 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

honour  of  the  light.  Its  leaves  are  divided 
into  three  folioles,  one  wide  and  terminal, 
the  two  others  narrow  and  planted  at  the 
base  of  the  first.  Each  of  these  leaflets  is 
animated  with  a  different  movement  of  its 
own.  They  live  in  a  state  of  rhythmical, 
almost  chronometrical  and  continuous  agi- 
tation. They  are  so  sensitive  to  light 
that  their  dance  flags  or  quickens  accord- 
ing as  the  clouds  veil  or  uncover  that  corner 
of  the  sky  which  they  contemplate.  They 
are,  as  we  see,  real  photometers;  and  this 
long  before  Crook's  discovery  of  the  nat- 
ural otheoscopes. 

VII 

But  these  plants,  to  which  should  be  added 
the  Droseras,theDionaeas  and  many  others, 
are  nervous  plants  that  already  go  a  little 
beyond  the  mysterious  and  probably  im- 
aginary ridge  that  separates  the  vegetable 

263 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

from  the  animal  kingdom.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  seek  so  high;  and  we  find  as  much 
intelligence  and  almost  as  much  visible  spon- 
taneity at  the  other  end  of  the  world  which 
we  are  considering,  in  the  low-lying  places 
where  the  plant  is  hardly  distinct  from  clay 
or  stone.  We  have  here  the  fabulous  class 
of  the  Cryptogamia,  which  can  be  studied 
only  under  the  microscope,  for  which  reason 
we  will  pass  it  by  in  silence,  although  the 
work  of  the  sporules  of  the  Mushrooms, 
Ferns  and  Horse-tails  is  incomparable  in  its 
delicacy  and  ingenuity.  But,  among  the  aqua- 
tic plants,  the  inhabitants  of  the  original 
ooze  and  mud,  we  can  see  less  secret  marvels 
performed.  As  the  fertilisation  of  their 
flowers  cannot  be  accomplished  underwater, 
each  of  them  has  thought  out  a  different  sys- 
tem to  allow  of  the  dry  dissemination  of  the 
pollen.  Thus,  the  Zosteras,  that  is  to  say, 
the  common  Sea-wrack  with  which  we  stuff 
our  beds,  carefully  enclose  their  flower  in 

264 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

a  regular  diving-bell;  and  the  Water-lilies 
send  theirs  to  blossom  on  the  surface  of  the 
pond,  supporting  and  feeding  it  at  the  top 
of  an  endless  stalk,  which  lengthens  as  the 
level  of  the  water  rises.  The  Villersia  nym- 
phoides,  having  no  expanding  stalk,  simply 
lets  its  flowers  go:  they  rise  to  the  surface 
and  burst  like  bubbles.  The  Trapa  natans, 
or  Water-caltrop,  supplies  them  with  a  sort 
of  inflated  tumour:  they  shoot  up  and  open. 
Then,  when  the  fertilisation  is  accomplished, 
the  air  in  the  tumour  is  replaced  by  a  muci- 
laginous fluid,  heavier  than  the  water,  and 
the  whole  apparatus  sinks  back  again  to  the 
slime,  where  the  fruits  ripen. 

The  system  of  the  Utricularia  is  even 
more  complicated.  M.  Henri  Bocquillon  de- 
scribes it  in  his  Vie  des  Plantes: 

"These    plants,    which    are    common    in 

ponds,   ditches,  pools  and  the  puddles  of 

peat-bogs,  are  not  visible  in  winter,  when 

265 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

they  lie  on  the  mud.  Their  long,  slim, 
trailing  stalk  is  furnished  with  leaves  re- 
duced to  ramified  filaments.  At  the  axilla 
of  the  leaves  thus  transformed,  we  see  a  sort 
of  little  pyriform  pocket  with  an  aperture 
in  its  pointed  upper  end.  This  aperture  has 
a  valve,  which  can  be  opened  only  from  the 
outside  inwards ;  its  edges  are  provided  with 
ramified  hairs;  the  inside  of  the  pocket 
is  covered  with  other  little  secretory  hairs 
which  give  it  the  appearance  of  velvet. 
When  the  moment  of  efforescence  has  come, 
the  axillary  utricles  fill  with  air:  the  more 
this  air  tends  to  escape,  the  more  tightly  it 
closes  the  valve.  The  result  is  that  it 
imparts  a  great  specific  buoyancy  to  the 
plant  and  carries  it  to  the  surface  of  the 
water.  Not  till  then  do  those  charming 
little  yellow  flowers  come  into  blossom,  re- 
sembling quaint  little  mouths  with  more  or 
less  swollen  lips  and  palates  streaked  with 
orange  or  rubiginous   lines.      During   the 

266 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

months  of  June,  July  and  August,  they  dis- 
play their  fresh  colours  gracefully  above 
the  muddy  water,  amid  the  vegetable  decay 
around  them.  But  fertilisation  has  been  ef- 
fected, the  fruit  develops,  all  things  play  a 
different  part:  the  ambient  water  presses 
upon  the  valve  of  the  utricles,  forces  it  in, 
rushes  into  the  cavity,  weighs  down  the 
plant  and  compels  it  to  descend  to  the  mud 
again." 

Is  it  not  interesting  to  see  thus  gathered  in 
this  immemorial  little  apparatus  some  of 
the  most  fruitful  and  recent  of  human  inven- 
tions :  the  play  of  valves  or  plugs,  the  pres- 
sure of  fluids  and  air,  the  Archimedean 
principle  studied  and  turned  to  account? 
As  the  author  whom  we  have  just  quoted 
observes,  "The  engineer  who  first  attached 
a  rafting  apparatus  to  a  sunk  ship  little 
thought  that  a  similar  process  had  been  in 

use  for  thousands  of  years."     In  a  world 

267 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

which  we  believe  unconscious  and  destitute 
of  intelligence,  we  begin  by  imagining  that 
the  least  of  our  ideas  creates  new  combina- 
tions and  relations.  When  we  come  to  look 
into  things  more  closely,  it  appears  infinitely 
probable  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to 
create  anything  whatsoever.  We  are  the 
last  comers  on  this  earth,  we  simply  find 
what  has  always  existed  and,  like  astonished 
children,  we  travel  again  the  road  which 
life  had  travelled  before  us.  When  all 
is  said,  it  is  very  natural  and  comforting 
that  this  should  be  so.  But  we  will  return 
to  this  point. 

VIII 

We  must  not  leave  the  aquatic  plants 
without  briefly  mentioning  the  life  of 
the  most  romantic  of  them  all:  the  legen- 
dary Vallisneria,  an  hydrocharad  whose 
nuptials  form  the  most  tragic  episode  in  the 

268 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

love-history  of  the  flowers.  The  Vallisneria 
is  a  rather  insignificant  herb,  possessing 
none  of  the  strange  grace  of  the  Water-lily 
or  of  certain  submersed  verdant  plants.  But 
it  seems  as  though  nature  had  delighted  in 
giving  it  a  beautiful  idea.  Its  whole  exist- 
ence is  spent  at  the  bottom  of  the  water,  in 
a  sort  of  half-slumber,  until  the  moment  of 
the  wedding-hour  comes,  when  it  aspires  to 
a  new  life.  Then  the  female  plant  slowly 
uncoils  the  long  spiral  of  its  peduncle,  rises, 
emerges  and  floats  and  blossoms  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  pond.  From  a  neighbouring 
stem,  the  male  flowers,  which  see  it  through 
the  sunlit  water,  rise  in  their  turn,  full  of 
hope,  towards  the  one  that  rocks,  that 
awaits  them,  that  calls  them  to  a  fairer 
world.  But,  when  they  have  come  half- 
way, they  feel  themselves  suddenly  held 
back:  their  stalk,  the  very  source  of  their 
life,  is  too  short;  they  will  never  reach  the 

abode  of  light,  the  only  spot  in  which  the 

269 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

union  of  the  stamens  and  the  pistil  can  be 
achieved!   .    .    . 

Is  there  any  more  cruel  inadvertence  or 
ordeal  in  nature?  Picture  the  tragedy  of 
that  longing,  the  inaccessible  so  nearly 
attained,  the  transparent  fatality,  the 
impossible  with  not  a  visible  obstacle ! 
It  would  be  insoluble,  like  our  own  tragedy 
upon  this  earth,  were  it  not  that  an  unex- 
pected element  is  mingled  with  it.  Did  the 
males  foresee  the  disillusion  to  which  they 
would  be  subjected?  One  thing  is  certain, 
that  they  have  locked  up  in  their  hearts  a 
bubble  of  air,  even  as  we  lock  up  in  our 
souls  a  thought  of  desperate  deliverance.  It 
is  as  though  they  hesitated  for  a  moment; 
then,  with  a  magnificent  effort,  the  finest, 
the  most  supernatural  that  I  know  of  in  all 
the  pageantry  of  the  insects  and  the  flowers, 
in  order  to  rise  to  happiness  they  deliber- 
ately break  the  bond  that  attaches  them  to 
life.      They    tear   themselves    from    their 

270 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

peduncle  and,  with  an  incomparable  flight, 
amid  bubbles  of  gladness,  their  petals  dart 
up  and  break  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Wounded  to  death,  but  radiant  and  free, 
they  float  for  a  moment  beside  their  heed- 
less brides  and  the  union  is  accomplished, 
whereupon  the  victims  drift  away  to  perish, 
while  the  wife,  already  a  mother,  closes 
her  corolla,  in  which  lives  their  last  breath, 
rolls  up  her  spiral  and  descends  to  the 
depths,  there  to  ripen  the  fruit  of  the  heroic 
kiss. 

Must  we  spoil  this  charming  picture,  which 
is  strictly  accurate,  but  seen  from  the  side 
of  the  light,  by  looking  at  it  also  from  that 
of  the  shadow?  Why  not?  There  are 
sometimes  on  the  shady  side  truths  quite  as 
interesting  as  those  on  the  bright.  This 
delightful  tragedy  is  perfect  only  when  we 
consider  the  intelligence  and  the  aspirations 
of  the  species.  But,  when  we  observe  indi- 
viduals, we  shall  often  see  them  act  awk- 

271 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

wardly  and  in  the  wrong  way  in  this  ideal 
plan.  At  one  time,  the  male  flowers  will 
ascend  to  the  surface  when  there  are  not 
yet  any  pistilled  flowers  near.  At  another, 
when  the  low  water  would  permit  them 
easily  to  join  their  companions,  they  will 
nevertheless  mechanically  and  to  no  purpose 
break  their  stalks.  We  here  once  more 
establish  the  fact  that  all  genius  lies  in  the 
species,  in  life  or  in  nature,  whereas  the 
individual  is  nearly  always  stupid.  In  man 
alone  does  a  real  emulation  exist  between 
the  two  intelligences,  a  more  and  more  pre- 
cise, more  and  more  active  tendency  towards 
a  sort  of  equilibrium  which  is  the  great 
secret  of  our  future. 

IX 

The  parasitic  plants,  again,  present  curi- 
ous and  crafty  spectacles,  as  in  the  case  of 

the  astonishing  Cuscuta,  commonly  called 

272 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

the  Dodder.  It  has  no  leaves ;  and  no  sooner 
has  its  stalk  attained  a  few  inches  in  length 
than  it  voluntarily  abandons  its  roots  to 
twine  about  its  chosen  victim,  into  which 
it  digs  its  suckers.  Thenceforth,  it  lives 
exclusively  upon  its  prey.  Its  perspicacity 
is  not  to  be  deceived;  it  will  refuse  any  sup- 
port that  does  not  please  it  and  will  go  some 
distance,  if  necessary,  in  search  of  the  stem 
of  Hemp,  Hop,  Lucern  or  Flax  that  suits 
its  temperament  and  its  taste. 

This  Cuscuta  naturally  calls  our  attention 
to  the  Creepers,  which  have  very  remark- 
able habits  and  which  deserve  a  word 
to  themselves.  Those  of  us  who  have 
lived  a  little  in  the  country  have  often 
had  occasion  to  admire  the  instinct,  the 
sort  of  power  of  vision,  that  directs  the 
tendrils  of  the  Virginian  Creeper  or  the 
Convolvulus  towards  the  handle  of  a  rake 
or  spade  resting  against  a  wall.  Move  the 
rake  and,  the  next  day,  the  tendril  will  have 

273 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

turned  completely  round  and  found  it  again. 
Schopenhauer,  in  his  treatise  Ueber  den 
Willen  in  der  Natnr,  in  the  chapter  devoted 
to  the  physiology  of  plants,  recapitulates  on 
this  point  and  on  many  others  a  host  of  ob- 
servations and  experiments  which  it  would 
take  too  long  to  set  out  here.  I  therefore 
refer  the  reader  to  this  chapter,  where  he 
will  find  numerous  sources  and  references 
marked  out  for  him.  Need  I  add  that,  in 
the  past  sixty  or  seventy  years,  these  sources 
have  been  strangely  multiplied  and  that,  be- 
sides, the  subject  is  almost  inexhaustible? 

Among  so  many  different  inventions,  arti- 
fices and  precautions,  let  us  mention  also, 
for  instance,  the  foresight  displayed  by  the 
Hyoseris  radiata,  or  Starry  Swine's-succory, 
a  little  yellow-flowered  plant,  not  unlike  the 
Dandelion  and  often  found  on  the  walls  of 
the  Riviera.  In  order  to  ensure  both  the 
dissemination  and  the  stability  of  its  race,  it 
bears  at  one  and  the  same  time  two  kinds  of 

274 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

seeds :  the  first  are  easily  detached  and 
are  furnished  with  wings  wherewith  to 
abandon  themselves  to  the  wind,  while  the 
others  have  no  wings,  remain  captive  in  the 
inflorescence  and  are  set  free  only  when  the 
latter  is  decomposed. 

The  case  of  the  Xanthium  spinosum,  or 
Spiny  Xanthium,  shows  us  how  well-con- 
ceived and  effective  certain  systems  of  dis- 
semination can  be.  This  Xanthium  is  a 
hideous  weed,  bristling  with  barbaric 
prickles.  Not  long  ago,  it  was  unknown  in 
Western  Europe  and  no  one,  naturally,  had 
dreamt  of  acclimatising  it.  It  owes  its  con- 
quests to  the  hooks  which  finish  off  the  cap- 
sules of  its  fruits  and  which  cling  to  the 
fleece  of  the  animals.  A  native  of  Russia, 
it  came  to  us  in  bales  of  wool  imported 
from  the  depths  of  the  Muscovite  steppes; 
and  one  might  follow  on  the  map  the  stages 
of  this  great  emigrant  which  has  annexed  a 
new  world. 

275 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

The  Silene  Italica,  or  Italian  Catchfly,  a 
simple  little  white  flower,  found  in  abun- 
dance under  the  olive-trees,  has  set  its 
thought  working  in  another  direction.  Ap- 
parently very  timorous,  very  susceptible,  to 
avoid  the  visits  of  importunate  and  in- 
delicate insects  it  furnishes  its  stalks  with 
glandular  hairs,  whence  oozes  a  viscid  fluid 
in  which  the  parasites  are  caught  with 
such  success  that  the  peasants  of  the  South 
use  the  plant  as  a  fly-catcher  in  their 
houses.  Certain  kinds  of  Catchflies,  more- 
over, have  ingeniously  simplified  the  sys- 
tem. Dreading  the  ants  in  particular,  they 
discovered  that  it  was  enough,  in  order  to 
prevent  them  from  passing,  to  place  a  wide 
viscid  ring  under  the  node  of  each  stalk. 
This  is  exactly  what  our  gardeners  do 
when  they  draw  a  circle  of  tar  around 
the  trunk  of  the  apple-trees  to  stop  the 
ascent  of  the  caterpillars. 

This  leads  to  the  study  of  the  defensive 

276 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

means  employed  by  the  plants.  In  an  ex- 
cellent popular  work,  Les  Plantes  originates, 
to  which  I  refer  the  reader  who  wishes  for 
fuller  details,  M.  Henri  Coupin  examines 
some  of  these  quaint  and  startling  weapons. 
We  have  first  the  stimulating  question  of 
the  thorns,  concerning  which  M.  Lothelier, 
a  student  at  the  Sorbonne,  has  made  a 
number  of  interesting  experiments,  result- 
ing in  the  conclusion  that  shade  and  damp 
tend  to  suppress  the  prickly  parts  of  the 
plants.  On  the  other  hand,  whenever  the 
place  in  which  it  grows  is  dry  and  burnt  by 
the  sun,  the  plant  bristles  and  multiplies  its 
spikes,  as  though  it  felt  that,  as  almost 
the  sole  survivor  among  the  rocks  or  in 
the  hot  sand,  it  is  called  upon  to  make 
a  mighty  effort  to  redouble  its  defences 
against  an  enemy  that  no  longer  has  a  choice 
of  victims  to  prey  upon.  It  is  a  remarkable 
fact,  moreover,  that,  when  cultivated  by 
man,  most  of  the  thorny  plants  gradually 

277 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

lay  aside  their  weapons,  leaving  the  care  of 
their  safety  to  the  supernatural  protector 
who  has  adopted  them  in  his  fenced 
grounds.1 

Certain  plants,  among  others  the  Bora- 
ginea,  supply  the  place  of  thorns  with  very 
hard  bristles.  Others,  such  as  the  Nettle, 
add   poison.      Others,   the   Geranium,   the 

1  Among  the  plants  that  have  ceased  to  defend 
themselves,  the  most  striking  case  is  that  of  the  Lettuce  : 
"In  its  wild  state,"  says  the  author  whom  I  have 
mentioned  above,  "  if  we  break  a  stalk  or  a  leaf,  we 
see  a  white  juice  exude  from  it,  the  latex,  a  substance 
formed  of  different  matters  which  vigorously  defend 
the  plant  against  the  assaults  of  the  slugs.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  the  cultivated  species  derived  from  the 
former,  the  latex  is  almost  missing,  for  which  reason 
the  plant,  to  the  despair  of  the  gardeners,  is  no  longer 
able  to  resist  and  allows  the  slugs  to  eat  it." 

It  is  nevertheless  right  to  add  that  this  latex  is  rarely 
lacking  except  in  the  young  plants,  whereas  it  becomes 
quite  abundant  when  the  Lettuce  begins  to  "cabbage" 
and  when  it  runs  to  seed.  Now  it  is  especially  at  the 
commencement  of  its  life,  at  the  budding  of  its  first, 
tender  leaves,  that  the  plant  needs  to  defend  itself. 
One  is  inclined  to  think  that  the  cultivated  Lettuce 
loses  its  head  a  little,  so  to  speak,  and  that  it  no  longer 
knows  exactly  where  it  stands. 

278 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

Mint,  the  Rue,  steep  themselves  in  power- 
ful odours  to  keep  off  the  animals.  But  the 
strangest  are  those  which  defend  them- 
selves mechanically.  I  will  mention  only 
the  Horse-tail,  which  surrounds  itself  with 
a  veritable  armour  of  microscopic  silica. 
Moreover,  almost  all  the  Graminea,  in 
order  to  discourage  the  gluttony  of  the 
slugs  and  snails,  add  lime  to  their  tissues. 

X 

Before  broaching  the  study  of  the  compli- 
cated forms  of  apparatus  rendered  neces- 
sary by  cross-fertilisation,  among  the  thou- 
sands of  nuptial  ceremonies  that  prevail  in 
our  gardens  let  us  mention  the  ingenious 
ideas  of  some  very  simple  flowers,  in  which 
the  grooms  and  brides  are  born,  love  and 
die  in  the  same  corolla.  The  typical  sys- 
tem is  well  enough  known :  the  stamens,  or 
male  organs,  generally  frail  and  numerous, 

279 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

are  grouped  around  the  robust  and  patient 
pistil.  But  the  disposition,  the  form,  the 
habits  of  these  organs  vary  in  every  flower, 
as  though  nature  had  a  thought  that 
cannot  yet  become  settled,  or  an  imagina- 
tion that  makes  it  a  point  of  honour  never 
to  repeat  itself.  Often  the  pollen,  when 
ripe,  falls  quite  naturally  from  the  top  of 
the  stamens  upon  the  pistil;  but  very  often, 
also,  pistil  and  stamens  are  of  the  same 
height,  or  the  latter  are  too  far  away, 
or  the  pistil  is  twice  as  tall  as  they.  Then 
come  endless  efforts  to  succeed  in  meeting. 
Sometimes,  as  in  the  Nettle,  the  stamens,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  corolla,  stand  cowering 
on  their  stalk:  at  the  moment  of  fertilisa- 
tion, the  stalk  straightens  out  like  a  spring 
and  the  anther,  or  pollen-mass,  that  tops  it 
shoots  a  cloud  of  dust  over  the  stigma. 
Sometimes,  as  in  the  Barberry,  whose  nup- 
tials can  be  accomplished  only  in  the  bright 
hours  of  a  cloudless  day,  the  stamens,  far 

280 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

removed  from  the  pistil,  are  kept  against 
the  sides  of  the  flower  by  the  weight  of  their 
moist  glands:  the  sun  appears  and  evapo- 
rates the  fluid  and  the  unballasted  stamens 
dart  upon  the  stigma.  Elsewhere  are  dif- 
ferent things  again :  thus,  in  the  Primroses, 
the  females  are  by  turns  longer  and  shorter 
than  the  males :  In  the  Lily,  the  Tulip  and 
other  flowers,  the  too  lanky  bride  does 
what  she  can  to  gather  and  fix  the  pollen. 
But  the  most  original  and  fantastic  system 
is  that  of  the  Rue  {Ruta  graveolens) ,  a 
rather  evil-smelling  medicinal  herb  of  the 
ill-famed  emmenagogic  tribe.  The  peace- 
ful and  docile  stamens,  drawn  up  in  a  circle 
around  the  fat,  squat  pistil,  wait  expectant 
in  the  yellow  corolla.  At  the  conjugal 
hour,  obeying  the  command  of  the  female, 
which  apparently  gives  a  sort  of  call  by 
name,  one  of  the  males  approaches  and 
touches  the  stigma.  Then  come  the  third, 
the  fifth,  the  seventh,  the  ninth  male,  until 

281 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

the  whole  row  of  odd  numbers  has  rendered 
service.  Next,  in  the  even  ranks,  comes  the 
turn  of  the  second,  the  fourth,  the  sixth  and 
so  on.  Here  in  verity  is  love  to  order! 
This  flower  which  knows  how  to  count  ap- 
pears to  me  so  extraordinary  that  I  at  first 
refused  to  believe  the  botanists;  and  I  was 
determined  more  than  once  to  test  its  nu- 
merical sense  before  accepting  it.  I  have 
ascertained  positively  that  it  but  seldom 
makes  a  mistake. 

It  is  superfluous  to  multiply  these  in- 
stances. A  stroll  in  the  woods  or  fields  will 
allow  any  one  to  make  a  thousand  observa- 
tions in  this  direction,  each  quite  as  curious 
as  those  related  by  the  botanists.  But, 
before  closing  this  chapter,  I  would  mention 
one  more  flower:  not  that  it  displays  any 
extraordinary  imagination,  but  because  of 
the  delightful  and  easily-perceptible  grace 
of  its  movement  of  love.  I  allude  to  the 
Nigella     Damasccna,     or     Fennel-flower, 

282 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

whose  folk-names  are  charming :  Love-in-a- 
mist,  Devil-in-a-bush,  Ragged-lady;  so 
many  happy  and  touching  efforts  of  popular 
poetry  to  describe  a  little  flower  that  pleases 
it.  This  plant  is  found  in  a  wild  state  in  the 
South,  by  the  roadside  and  under  the  olive- 
trees,  and  is  often  cultivated  in  the  North  in 
old-fashioned  gardens.  Its  blossom  is  a 
pale  blue,  simple  as  a  floweret  in  a  primi- 
tive painting,  and  the  "Venus'  locks"  or 
"ragged  locks"  that  give  the  Ragged-lady 
its  popular  name  in  France  are  the  light, 
tenuous,  tangled  leaves  that  surround  the 
corolla  with  a  "bush"  of  misty  verdure. 
At  the  source  of  the  flower,  the  five  ex- 
tremely long  pistils  stand  close-grouped  in 
the  centre  of  the  azure  crown,  like  five 
queens  clad  in  green  gowns,  haughty  and 
inaccessible.  Around  them  crowd  hope- 
lessly the  innumerous  throng  of  their 
lovers,  the  stamens,  which  do  not  come  up 
to   their  knees.      And   now,    in   the   heart 

283 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

of  this  palace  of  sapphires  and  turquoises, 
in  the  gladness  of  the  summer  days,  begins 
the  drama  without  words  or  catastrophe 
which  one  might  expect,  the  drama  of 
powerless,  useless,  motionless  waiting.  But 
the  hours  pass  that  are  the  flower's  years: 
its  brilliancy  fades,  its  petals  fall  and  the 
pride  of  the  great  queens  seems  at  last  to 
bend  under  the  weight  of  life.  At  a  given 
moment,  as  though  obeying  the  secret  and 
irresistible  command  of  love,  which  deems 
the  proof  to  have  lasted  long  enough,  with 
a  concerted  and  symmetrical  movement, 
comparable  with  the  harmonious  parabolas 
of  a  five-fold  jet  of  water,  they  all  together 
bend  backwards,  stoop  and  gracefully  cull 
the  golden  dust  of  the  nuptial  kiss  on  the 
lips  of  their  humble  lovers. 

XI 

The  unexpected  abounds  here,  as  we  see. 
A  great  volume  might  be  written  on  the  in- 

284 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

telligence  of  the  plants,  even  as  Romanes 
wrote  one  on  animal  intelligence.  But  this 
sketch  has  no  pretension  to  become  a 
manual  of  that  kind;  and  I  wish  only  to 
call  attention  to  a  few  interesting  events 
that  happen  beside  us  in  this  world  wherein 
we  think  ourselves,  a  little  too  vainglori- 
ously,  privileged.  These  events  are  not 
selected,  but  taken,  by  way  of  instances,  as 
the  random  result  of  observation  and  cir- 
cumstance. I  propose,  however,  in  these 
short  notes,  to  concern  myself  above  all 
with  the  flower,  for  it  is  in  the  flower  that 
the  greatest  marvels  shine  forth.  I  set  aside, 
for  the  moment,  the  carnivorous  flowers, 
Droseras,  Nepenthes  and  the  rest,  which 
approach  the  animal  kingdom  and  would 
demand  a  special  and  expansive  study,  in 
order  to  devote  myself  to  the  true  flower, 
the  flower  proper,  which  is  believed  to  be 
motionless,  insentient,  passive  and  inani- 
mate. 

285 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

To  separate  facts  from  theories,  let  us 
speak  of  the  flower  as  though  all  that  it  has 
realised  had  been  foreseen  and  conceived  in 
the  manner  of  men.  We  shall  see  later  how- 
much  we  must  leave  to  it,  how  much  take 
away  from  it.  For  the  present,  let  it  take 
the  stage  alone,  like  a  splendid  princess  en- 
dowed with  reason  and  will.  There  is  no 
denying  that  it  appears  to  be  provided  with 
both ;  and  to  deprive  it  of  either  we  should 
have  to  resort  to  very  obscure  hypotheses. 
It  is  there,  then,  motionless  on  its 
stalk,  sheltering  in  a  dazzling  tabernacle 
the  reproductive  organs  of  the  plant.  Ap- 
parently, it  has  but  to  allow  the  mysterious 
union  of  the  stamens  and  pistil  to  be 
accomplished  in  this  tabernacle  of  love. 
And  many  flowers  do  so  consent.  But 
to  many  others  there  is  propounded,  big 
with  awful  threats,  the  normally  insoluble 
problem  of  cross-fertilisation.  As  the  re- 
sult of  what  numberless  and  immemorial 

286 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

experiments  did  they  observe  that  self-fertil- 
isation— that  is  the  fertilisation  of  the  stig- 
ma by  the  pollen  falling  from  the  anthers 
that  surround  it  in  the  same  corolla — rapidly 
induces  the  degeneration  of  the  species? 
They  have  observed  nothing,  we  are  told, 
nor  profited  by  any  experience.  The  force 
of  things  quite  simply  and  gradually  elimi- 
nated the  seeds  and  plants  weakened  by 
self-fertilisation.  Soon  only  those  survived 
which,  through  some  anomaly,  such  as  the 
exaggerated  length  of  the  pistil,  rendering 
it  inaccessible  to  the  anthers,  were  pre- 
vented from  fertilising  themselves.  These 
exceptions  alone  endured,  through  a  thou- 
sand revolutions;  heredity  finally  deter- 
mined the  work  of  chance;  and  the  normal 
type  disappeared. 

XII 

We  shall  see  presently  what  light  these 

explanations  throw.     For  the  moment,  let 

287 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

us  stroll  into  the  garden  or  the  field,  to 
study  more  closely  two  or  three  curious  in- 
ventions of  the  genius  of  the  flower.  And 
already,  without  going  far  from  the  house, 
we  have  here,  frequented  by  the  bees,  a 
sweet-scented  cluster  inhabited  by  a  most 
skilled  mechanic.  There  is  no  one,  even 
among  the  least  countrified,  but  knows  the 
good  Sage.  It  is  an  unpretending  Labiata 
and  bears  a  very  modest  flower,  which 
opens  violently,  like  a  hungry  mouth,  to 
snap  the  rays  of  the  sun  in  passing.  For 
that  matter,  it  presents  a  large  number  of 
varieties,  not  all  of  which — this  is  a  curious 
detail — have  adopted  or  carried  to  the 
same  pitch  of  perfection  the  system  of  fer- 
tilisation which  we  are  about  to  examine. 
But  I  am  concerned  here  only  with  the  most 
common  Sage,  that  which,  at  this  moment, 
as  though  to  celebrate  spring's  passage, 
covers  with  violet  draperies  all  the  walls  of 
my  terraces  of  olive-trees.    I  assure  you  that 

288 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

the  balconies  of  the  great  marble  palaces 
that  await  the  kings  were  never  more  luxuri- 
ously, more  happily,  more  fragrantly 
adorned.  One  seems  to  catch  the  very  per- 
fumes of  the  light  of  the  sun  at  its  hottest, 
when  noon-day  strikes.   .    .    . 

To  come  to  details,  the  stigma,  or  female 
organ,  of  the  flower  is  contained  in  the 
upper  lip,  which  forms  a  sort  of  hood,  in 
which  are  also  the  two  stamens,  or  male 
organs.  To  prevent  these  from  fertilising 
the  stigma  which  shares  the  same  nuptial 
tent,  this  stigma  is  twice  as  long  as  they, 
so  that  they  have  no  hope  of  reaching  it. 
Moreover,  in  order  to  avoid  any  accident, 
the  flower  has  made  itself  protenandrous, 
that  is  to  say,  the  stamens  ripen  before 
the  pistil,  so  that,  when  the  female  is 
fit  to  conceive,  the  males  have  already  dis- 
appeared. It  is  necessary,  therefore, 
that  an  external  force  should  intervene  to 
accomplish  the  union  by  carrying  a  foreign 

289 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

pollen  to  the  abandoned  stigma.  A  cer- 
tain number  of  flowers,  the  anemophilous 
flowers,  leave  this  care  to  the  wind.  But 
the  Sage — and  this  is  the  more  general  case 
— is  entomophilous,  that  is  to  say,  it  loves 
insects  and  relies  upon  their  collaboration 
alone.  Still,  it  is  quite  aware,  for  it  knows 
many  things,  that  it  lives  in  a  world  where 
it  is  best  to  expect  no  sympathy,  no  chari- 
table aid.  It  does  not  waste  time,  there- 
fore, in  making  useless  appeals  to  the 
courtesy  of  the  bee.  The  bee,  like  all  that 
struggles  against  death  in  this  world  of 
ours,  exists  only  for  herself  and  for  her 
kind  and  is  in  no  way  concerned  to  render 
a  service  to  the  flowers  that  feed  her.  How 
shall  she  be  obliged,  in  spite  of  herself,  or  at 
least  unconsciously,  to  fulfil  her  matri- 
monial office?  Observe  the  wonderful 
love-trap  contrived  by  the  Sage:  right  at 
the  back  of  its  tent  of  violet  silk,  it  distils 
a  few  drops  of  nectar;  this  is  the  bait.    But, 

290 


The   Intelligence   of  the   Flowers 

barring  the  access  to  the  sugary  fluid,  stand 
two  parallel  stalks,  somewhat  similar  to  the 
uprights  of  a  Dutch  drawbridge.  Right  at 
the  top  of  each  stalk  is  a  great  sack,  the 
anther,  overflowing  with  pollen;  at  the 
bottom,  two  smaller  sacks  serve  as  a  coun- 
terpoise. When  the  bee  enters  the  flower, 
in  order  to  reach  the  nectar  she  has  to  push 
the  small  sacks  with  her  head.  The  two 
stalks,  which  turn  on  an  axis,  at  once  topple 
over  and  the  upper  anthers  come  down  and 
touch  the  sides  of  the  insect,  whom  they 
cover  with  fertilising  dust.  No  sooner  has 
the  bee  departed  than  the  springy  pivots 
fly  back  and  replace  the  mechanism  in  its 
first  position;  and  all  is  ready  to  repeat  the 
work  at  the  next  visit. 

However,  this  is  only  the  first  half  of  the 
play :  the  sequel  is  enacted  in  another 
scene.  In  a  neighbouring  flower,  whose 
stamens  have  just  withered,  enters  upon 
the  stage  the  pistil  that  awaits  the  pollen. 

291 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

It  issues  slowly  from  the  hood,  lengthens 
out,  stoops,  curves  down,  becomes  forked 
so  as,  in  its  turn,  to  bar  the  entrance  to  the 
tent.  On  its  way  to  the  nectar,  the  head 
of  the  bee  passes  freely  under  the  hanging 
fork,  which,  however,  grazes  her  back  and 
sides  exactly  at  the  spots  touched  by  the 
stamens.  The  two-cleft  stigma  greedily 
absorbs  the  silvery  dust;  and  the  impregna- 
tion is  accomplished.  It  is  easy,  for 
that  matter,  by  introducing  a  straw  or  the 
end  of  a  match,  to  set  the  apparatus  going 
and  to  take  stock  of  the  striking  and  mar- 
vellous combination  and  precision  of  all  its 
movements. 

The  varieties  of  the  Sage  are  very  many 
— they  number  about  five  hundred — and  I 
will  spare  you  the  majority  of  their  scien- 
tific names,  which  are  not  always  pretty: 
Salvia  pratensls,  officinalis  (our  Garden 
Sage)  iHorminum,  Horminoides , glutinosa, 

Sclarea,   Romeri,    azurea,   Pitcheri,   splen- 

292 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

dens  (the  magnificent  Sage  of  our  baskets) 
and  so  on.  There  is  not,  perhaps,  one  but 
has  modified  some  detail  of  the  machinery 
which  we  have  just  examined.  A  few — and 
this,  I  think,  is  a  doubtful  improvement — 
have  doubled  and  sometimes  trebled  the 
length  of  the  pistil,  so  that  it  not  only 
emerges  from  the  hood,  but  makes  a  wide 
plume-like  curve  in  front  of  the  entrance 
to  the  flower.  They  thus  avoid  the  just- 
possible  danger  of  the  fertilisation  of  the 
stigma  by  the  anthers  dwelling  in  the  same 
hood;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  hap- 
pen, if  the  protenandry  be  not  strict,  that 
the  insect,  on  leaving  the  flower,  deposits  on 
the  stigma  the  pollen  of  the  very  anthers 
with  which  the  stigma  cohabits.  Others 
in  the  movement  of  the  lever,  make  the  an- 
thers diverge  farther  apart  so  as  to  strike 
the  sides  of  the  animal  with  greater  pre- 
cision. Others,  lastly,  have  not  succeeded 
in  arranging  and  adjusting  every  part  of  the 

293 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

mechanism.  I  find,  for  instance,  not  far 
from  my  violet  Sage,  near  the  well,  under 
a  cluster  of  Oleanders,  a  family  of  white 
flowers  tinted  with  pale  lilac  which 
have  no  suggestion  or  trace  of  a  lever. 
The  stamens  and  the  stigma  are  heaped  up 
promiscuously  in  the  middle  of  the  corolla. 
All  seems  left  to  chance  and  disorganised. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  it  would  be  possible, 
to  any  one  collecting  the  very  numerous 
varieties  of  this  Labiata,  to  reconstruct  the 
whole  history,  to  follow  all  the  stages  of  the 
invention,  from  the  primitive  disorder  of 
the  white  Sage  under  my  eyes  to  the  latest 
improvements  of  the  Salvia  pratensis.  What 
conclusion  are  we  to  draw?  Is  the  system 
still  in  the  experimental  stage  among  the 
aromatic  tribe?  Has  it  not  yet  left  the 
period  of  models  and  "trial  trips,"  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Archimedean  screw  in  the 
Saintfoin  family?  Has  the  excellence  of 
the  automatic   lever  not  yet  been  unani- 

294 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

mously  admitted?  Can  it  be,  then,  that 
everything  is  not  unchangeable  and  pre- 
established;  and  are  they  still  discussing  and 
experimenting  in  this  world  which  we  be- 
lieve to  be  fatally,  organically  regular?1 

1  For  nearly  four  years,  I  have  been  engaged  upon 
a  series  of  experiments  in  the  hybridisation  of  Sages, 
artificially  fertilising  (first  taking  the  usual  precautions 
against  any  interference  of  wind  or  insects)  a  variety  of 
which  the  floral  mechanism  has  reached  a  high  state  of 
perfection  with  the  pollen  of  a  very  backward  variety  ; 
and  vice  versa.  My  observations  are  not  yet  suffi- 
ciently numerous  to  permit  me  to  give  any  details  or 
conclusions  here.  Nevertheless,  it  already  appears  as 
if  a  general  law  were  being  evolved,  namely  that  the 
backward  Sage  readily  adopts  the  improvements  of  the 
more  advanced  variety,  whereas  the  latter  is  not  so 
prone  to  accept  the  defects  of  the  first.  This  would 
tend  to  throw  an  interesting  side-light  upon  the  opera- 
tions, the  habits,  the  preferences,  the  tastes  of  nature 
at  her  best.  But  these  experiments  cannot  possibly  be 
completed  in  so  short  a  period,  because  of  the  time 
lost  in  collecting  the  different  varieties,  of  the  number- 
less proofs  and  counter-proofs  required  and  so  on.  It 
would  be  premature,  therefore,  as  yet  to  draw  the 
slightest  conclusion  from  them. 


295 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

XIII 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  flower  of  most 
varieties  of  the  Sage  presents  an  attractive 
solution  of  the  great  problem  of  cross- 
fertilisation.  But,  even  as,  among  men,  a 
new  invention  is  at  once  taken  up,  simpli- 
fied, improved  by  a  host  of  small  indefatig- 
able seekers,  so,  in  the  world  of  what 
we  may  call  mechanical  flowers,  the  patent 
of  the  Sage  has  been  elaborated  and  in 
many  details  strangely  perfected.  A  pretty 
general  Scrophularinea,  the  common  Louse- 
wort,  or  Red-rattle  (Pedicularis  sylvatica), 
which  you  must  surely  have  noticed  in  the 
shady  parts  of  small  woods  and  heaths,  has 
introduced  some  extremely  ingenious  modi- 
fications. The  shape  of  the  corolla  is 
almost  similar  to  that  of  the  Sage;  the 
stigma  and  the  two  anthers  are  all  three 
contained  in  the  upper  hood.  Only  the  little 

296 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

moist  tip  of  the  pistil  protrudes  from  the 
hood,  while  the  anthers  remain  captive.  In 
this  silky  tabernacle,  therefore,  the  organs 
of  the  two  sexes  are  very  close  together  and 
even  in  immediate  contact;  nevertheless, 
thanks  to  an  enactment  quite  different  from 
that  of  the  Sage,  self-fertilisation  is  made 
absolutely  impossible.  The  anthers,  in  fact, 
form  two  sacks  filled  with  powder;  each  of 
the  sacks  has  only  one  opening  and  they  are 
juxtaposed  in  such  a  way  that  the  openings 
coincide  and  mutually  close  each  other. 
They  are  forcibly  kept  inside  the  hood,  on 
their  curved,  springy  stalks,  by  a  sort  of 
teeth.  The  bee  or  humble-bee  that  enters 
the  flower  to  sip  its  nectar  necessarily  pushes 
these  teeth  aside;  and  the  sacks  are  no 
sooner  set  free  than  they  fly  up,  are  flung 
outside  and  alight  upon  the  back  of  the 
insect. 
But  the  genius  and  foresight  of  the  flower 

go  farther  than  this.    As  Hermann  Miiller, 

297 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

who  was  the  first  to  make  a  complete  study 
of  the  wonderful  mechanism  of  the  Louse- 
wort,  observes  (I  am  quoting  from  a  sum- 
mary) : 

"If  the  stamens  struck  the  insect  while 
preserving  their  relative  positions,  not  a 
grain  of  pollen  would  leave  them,  because 
their  orifices  reciprocally  close  each  other. 
But  a  contrivance  which  is  as  simple  as  it 
is  ingenious  overcomes  the  difficulty.  The 
lower  lip  of  the  corolla,  instead  of  being 
symmetrical  and  horizontal,  is  irregular 
and  slanting,  so  that  one  side  of  it  is  higher 
by  a  few  millimetres  than  the  other.  The 
humble-bee  resting  upon  it  must  herself 
necessarily  stand  in  a  sloping  position.  The 
result  is  that  her  head  strikes  first  one  and 
then  the  other  of  the  projections  of  the 
corolla.  Therefore  the  releasing  of  the 
stamens  also  takes  place  successively;  and, 
one  after  the  other,  their  orifices,  now  freed, 

298 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

strike   the    insect   and   sprinkle   her   with 
fertilising  dust. 

"When  the  humble-bee  next  passes  to 
another  flower,  she  inevitably  fertilises  it, 
because — and  I  have  purposely  omitted  this 
detail — what  she  meets  first  of  all,  when 
thrusting  her  head  into  the  entrance  to  the 
corolla,  is  the  stigma,  which  grazes  her  just 
at  the  spot  where  she  is  about,  the  moment 
after,  to  be  struck  by  the  stamens,  the  exact 
spot  where  she  has  already  been  touched  by 
the  stamens  of  the  flower  which  she  has  last 
left." 

XIV 

These  instances  might  be  multiplied  in- 
definitely; every  flower  has  its  idea,  its 
system,  its  acquired  experience  which  it 
turns  to  advantage.  When  we  examine 
closely  their  little  inventions,  their  diverse 
methods,  we  are  reminded  of  those  enthrall- 
ing  exhibitions   of   machine-tools,    of   ma- 

299 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

chines  for  making  machinery,  in  which  the 
mechanical  genius  of  man  reveals  all  its  re- 
sources. But  our  mechanical  genius  dates 
from  yesterday,  whereas  floral  mechanism 
has  been  at  work  for  thousands  of  years. 
When  the  flowers  made  their  appearance 
upon  our  earth,  there  were  no  models 
around  them  which  they  could  imitate;  they 
had  to  derive  everything  from  within  them- 
selves. At  the  period  when  we  had  not 
gone  beyond  the  club,  the  bow  and  the  flail; 
in  the  comparatively  recent  days  when  we 
conceived  the  spinning-wheel,  the  pulley, 
the  tackle,  the  ram;  at  the  time — it  was 
last  year,  so  to  speak — when  our  master- 
pieces were  the  catapult,  the  clock  and  the 
weaving-loom,  the  Sage  had  contrived  the 
uprights  and  counterweights  of  its  lever  of 
precision  and  the  Lousewort  its  sacks  closed 
up  as  though  for  a  scientific  experiment,  the 
successive  releasing  of  its  springs  and  the 
combination  of  its  inclined  planes.     Who, 

300 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

say  a  hundred  years  ago,  dreamt  of  the 
properties  of  the  screw  which  the  Maple 
and  the  Lime-tree  have  been  turning  to  use 
since  the  birth  of  the  trees  ?  When  shall  we 
succeed  in  building  a  parachute  or  a  flying- 
machine  as  rigid,  as  light,  as  subtle  and  as 
safe  as  that  of  the  Dandelion?  When  shall 
we  discover  the  secret  of  cutting  in  so  frail 
a  fabric  as  the  silk  of  the  petals  a  spring  as 
powerful  as  that  which  projects  into  space 
the  golden  pollen  of  the  Spanish  Broom? 
As  for  the  Momordica,  or  Squirting  Cu- 
cumber, whose  name  I  mentioned  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  little  study,  who  shall  tell 
us  the  mystery  of  its  miraculous  strength? 
Do  you  know  the  Momordica?  It  is  a 
humble  Cucurbitacea,  common  enough 
along  the  Mediterranean  coast.  Its  prickly 
fruit,  which  resembles  a  small  cucumber,  is 
endowed  with  inexplicable  vitality  and 
energy.  You  have  but  to  touch  it,  at  the 
moment  of  its  maturity,   and  it  suddenly 

301 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

quits  its  peduncle  by  means  of  a  convulsive 
contraction  and  shoots  through  the  hole 
produced  by  the  wrench,  mingled  with 
numerous  seeds,  a  mucilaginous  stream  of 
such  wonderful  intensity  that  it  carries  the 
seed  to  four  or  five  yards'  distance  from 
the  natal  plant.  The  action  is  as  extraordi- 
nary, in  proportion,  as  though  we  were  to 
succeed  in  emptying  ourselves  with  a  single 
spasmodic  movement  and  in  precipitating 
all  our  organs,  our  viscera  and  our  blood  to 
a  distance  of  half  a  mile  from  our  skin  and 
skeleton. 

A  large  number  of  seeds  besides  have 
ballistic  methods  and  employ  sources  of 
energy  that  are  more  or  less  unknown  to 
us.  Remember,  for  instance,  the  explosions 
of  the  Colza  and  the  Heath.  But  one  of 
the  great  masters  of  vegetable  artillery 
is  the  Spurge.  The  Spurge  is  an  Euphor- 
biacea  of  our  climes,  a  tall  and  fairly  orna- 
mental  "weed,"  which  often  exceeds  the 

302 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

height  of  a  man.  I  have  a  branch  of 
Spurge  on  my  table  at  this  moment  steeped 
in  a  glass  of  water.  It  has  trifid,  greenish 
berries,  which  contain  the  seeds.  From 
time  to  time,  one  of  these  berries  bursts 
with  a  loud  report;  and  the  seeds,  gifted 
with  a  prodigious  initial  velocity,  strike  the 
furniture  and  the  walls  on  every  side.  If 
one  of  them  hits  your  face,  you  feel  as 
though  you  had  been  stung  by  an  insect, 
so  extraordinary  is  the  penetrating  force  of 
these  tiny  seeds,  each  no  larger  than  a 
pin's  head.  Examine  the  berry,  look  for 
the  springs  that  give  it  life:  you  shall 
not  find  the  secret  of  this  force,  which  is 
as  invisible  as  that  of  our  nerves. 

The  Spanish  Broom  {Spartiam  junceum) 
has  not  only  pods,  but  flowers  fitted  with 
springs.  You  may  have  remarked  the 
wonderful  plant.  It  is  the  proudest  rep- 
resentative of  this  powerful  family  of 
the  Brooms.     Greedy  of  life,  poor,  sober, 

303 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

robust,  rejecting  no  soil,  no  trial,  it  forms 
ialong  the  paths  and  in  the  mountains  of 
the  South  huge,  tufted  balls,  sometimes 
three  yards  high,  which,  between  May  and 
June,  are  covered  with  a  magnificent  bloom 
of  pure  gold,  whose  perfumes,  mingling 
with  those  of  its  habitual  neighbour,  the 
Honeysuckle,  spread  under  the  fury  of  a 
fierce  sun  delights  that  are  not  to  be 
described  save  by  evoking  celestial  dews, 
Elysian  springs,  cool  streams  and  starry 
transparencies  in  the  hollow  of  azure  grot- 
toes. .    .   . 

The  flower  of  this  Broom,  like  that  of 
all  the  papilionaceous  heguminosa,  resem- 
bles the  flowers  of  the  Peas  of  our  gardens; 
and  its  lower  petals,  shaped  like  the  beak 
of  a  galley,  contain  hermetically  the  sta- 
mens and  the  pistil.  So  long  as  it  is  not  ripe, 
the  bee  who  explores  it  finds  it  impene- 
trable. But,  as  soon  as  the  moment  of 
ouberty  arrives  for  the  captive  bride  and 

304 


* 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

grooms,  the  beak  bends  under  the  weight 
of  the  insect  that  rests  upon  it;  and  the 
golden  chamber  bursts  voluptuously,  hurl- 
ing with  violence  and  afar,  over  the  visitor, 
over  the  flowers  around,  a  cloud  of  lumi- 
nous dust,  which  a  broad  petal,  shaped  like 
a  penthouse,  casts  down  upon  the  stigma  to 
be  impregnated. 

XV 

Let  us  leave  the  seeds  and  return  to  the 
flowers.  As  I  have  said,  one  could  pro- 
long indefinitely  the  list  of  their  ingenious 
inventions.  I  refer  those  who  might  wish 
to  study  these  problems  thoroughly  to  the 
works  of  Christian  Konrad  Sprcngel,  who 
was  the  first,  in  1793,  in  his  curious  volume, 
Das  entdeckte  Geheimniss  der  Natur  im 
Bau  und  in  der  Befruchtung  der  Blumen,  to 
analyse  the  functions  of  the  different  organs 
in   the    Orchids;    next,    to   the    books   of 

305 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

Charles  Darwin,  Dr.  Hermann  Miiller  of 
Lippstadt,  Hildebrand,  Delpino  the  Italian, 
Sir  William  Hooker,  Robert  Brown  and 
many  others. 

We  shall  find  the  most  perfect  and  the 
most  harmonious  manifestations  of  vege- 
table intelligence  among  the  Orchids.  In 
these  writhing  and  eccentric  flowers,  the 
genius  of  the  plant  touches  its  extreme 
point  and  with  an  unusual  fire  pierces 
the  wall  that  separates  the  kingdoms.  For 
that  matter,  this  name  of  Orchid  must 
not  be  allowed  to  mislead  us  or  make  us 
believe  that  we  have  here  to  do  only  with 
rare  and  precious  flowers,  with  those  hot- 
house queens  which  seem  to  claim  the  care 
of  the  goldsmith  rather  than  the  gardener. 
Our  native  wild  flora,  which  comprises  all 
our  modest  "weeds,"  numbers  more  than 
twenty-five  species  of  Orchids,  including 
just  the  most  ingenious  and  complicated. 

It  is  these  which  Charles  Darwin  studied 

306 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

in  his  book,  On  the  Various  Contrivances 
by  which  Orchids  are  fertilised  by  Insects, 
which  is  the  wonderful  history  of  the  most 
heroic  efforts  of  the  soul  of  the  flower.  It  is 
out  of  the  question  that  I  should  here,  in 
a  few  lines,  summarise  that  abundant  and 
fairylike  biography.  Nevertheless,  since  we 
are  on  the  subject  of  the  intelligence  of 
flowers,  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  give 
some  idea  of  the  methods  and  the  mental 
habits  of  that  which  excels  all  the  others 
in  the  art  of  compelling  the  bee  or  the 
butterfly  to  do  exactly  what  it  wishes,  in 
the  prescribed  form  and  time. 

XVI 

It  is  not  easy  to  explain  without  diagrams 
the  extraordinarily  complex  mechanism  of 
the  Orchid.  Nevertheless,  I  will  try  to  give 
a  sufficient  idea  of  it  with  the  aid  of  more  or 
less  approximate  comparisons,  while  avoid- 

307 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

ing  as  far  as  possible  the  use  of  technical 
terms  such  as  retinaculum,  labellum,  rostel- 
lum  and  the  rest,  which  evoke  no  precise 
image  in  the  minds  of  persons  unfamiliar 
with  botany. 

Let  us  take  one  of  the  most  widely 
distributed  Orchids  in  our  regions,  the 
Orchis  maculata,  for  instance,  or  rather, 
because  it  is  a  little  larger  and  therefore 
more  easily  observed,  the  Orchis  latifolia, 
the  Marsh  Orchid,  commonly  known  as  the 
Meadow-rocket.  It  is  a  perennial  plant 
and  grows  to  a  height  of  an  inch  or  more. 
It  is  fairly  common  in  the  woods  and 
damp  meadows  and  it  bears  a  thyrse  of  little 
pink  flowers  which  blossom  in  May  and 
June.  The  typical  flower  of  our  Orchids 
represents  pretty  closely  the  fantastic  and 
yawning  mouth  of  a  Chinese  dragon.  The 
lower  lip,  which  is  very  long  and  which 
hangs  in  the  form  of  a  jagged  or  den- 
tate apron,  serves  as  a  landing-place  for  the 

308 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

insect.  The  upper  lip  rounds  into  a  sort  of 
hood,  which  shelters  the  essential  organs; 
while,  at  the  back  of  the  flower,  beside  the 
peduncle,  there  falls  a  kind  of  spur  or  long, 
pointed  horn,  which  contains  the  nectar. 
In  most  flowers,  the  stigma,  or  female  or- 
gan, is  a  more  or  less  viscid  little  tuft  which, 
at  the  end  of  a  frail  stalk,  patiently  awaits 
the  coming  of  the  pollen.  In  the  Orchid,  this 
traditional  installation  has  become  irrecog- 
nisable.  At  the  back  of  the  mouth,  in  the 
place  occupied  in  the  throat  by  the  uvula, 
are  two  closely-welded  stigmas,  above  which 
rises  a  third  stigma  modified  into  an  extraor- 
dinary organ.  At  its  top,  it  carries  a  sort 
of  little  pouch,  or,  more  correctly,  a  sort 
of  stoup,  which  is  called  the  rostellum.  This 
stoup  is  full  of  a  viscid  fluid  in  which  soak 
two  tiny  balls  whence  issue  two  short  stalks 
laden  at  their  upper  extremity  with  a 
packet  of  grains  of  pollen  carefully  tied  up. 
Let  us  now  see  what  happens  when  an 

309 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

insect  enters  the  flower.  She  lands  on  the 
lower  lip,  outspread  to  receive  her,  and, 
attracted  by  the  scent  of  the  nectar,  seeks 
to  reach  the  horn  that  contains  it,  right  at 
the  back.  But  the  passage  is  purposely 
very  narrow;  and  the  insect's  head,  as  she 
advances,  necessarily  strikes  the  stoup.  The 
latter,  sensitive  to  the  least  shock,  is  at  once 
ruptured  along  a  convenient  line  and  lays 
bare  the  two  little  balls  steeped  in  the  viscid 
fluid.  These,  coming  into  immediate  con- 
tact with  the  visitor's  skull,  fasten  to  it 
and  become  firmly  stuck  to  it,  so  that, 
when  the  insect  leaves  the  flower,  she  car- 
ries them  away  and,  with  them,  the  two 
stalks  which  rise  from  them  and  which 
end  in  the  packets  of  tied-up  pollen.  We 
therefore  have  the  insect  capped  with  two 
straight,  bottle-shaped  horns.  The  uncon- 
scious artisan  of  a  difficult  work  now  visits 
a  neighbouring  flower.  If  her  horns  re- 
mained stiff,  they  would  simply  strike  with 

310 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

their  pollen-masses  the  other  pollen-masses 
soaking  in  the  vigilant  stoup  and  no  event 
would  spring  from  the  pollen  mingling  with 
pollen.  But  here  the  genius,  the  experience 
and  the  foresight  of  the  Orchid  become  ap- 
parent. The  Orchid  has  minutely  calculated 
the  time  needed  for  the  insect  to  suck  the 
nectar  and  repair  to  the  next  flower;  and  it 
has  ascertained  that  this  requires,  on  an 
average,  thirty  seconds.  We  have  seen  that 
the  packets  of  pollen  are  carried  on  two 
short  stalks  inserted  into  the  viscid  balls. 
Now  at  the  point  of  insertion  there  is,  under 
each  stalk,  a  small  membranous  disc,  whose 
only  function  is,  at  the  end  of  thirty  seconds, 
to  contract  and  throw  forward  the  stalks, 
causing  them  to  curve  and  describe  an 
arc  of  ninety  degrees.  This  is  the  result 
of  a  fresh  calculation,  not  of  time,  on  the 
occasion,  but  of  space.  The  two  horns  of 
pollen  that  cap  the  nuptial  messenger  are 
now  horizontal  and  point  in  front  of  her 

311 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

head,  so  that,  when  she  enters  the  next 
flower,  they  will  just  strike  the  two  welded 
stigmas  under  the  pendent  stoup. 

This  is  not  all  and  the  genius  of  the 
Orchid  has  not  yet  expended  all  its  fore- 
sight. The  stigma  which  receives  the  blow 
of  the  packet  is  coated  with  a  viscid  sub- 
stance. If  this  substance  were  as  powerfully 
adhesive  as  that  contained  in  the  stoup,  the 
pollen-masses,  after  their  stalks  were 
broken,  would  stick  to  it  and  remain  fixed 
to  it  whole;  and  their  destiny  would  be 
ended.  This  must  not  be;  it  is  important 
that  the  chances  of  the  pollen  should  not 
be  exhausted  in  a  single  venture,  but  rather 
that  they  should  be  multiplied  to  the  great- 
est possible  extent.  The  flower  that  counts 
the  seconds  and  measures  the  lines  is  a 
chemist  to  boot  and  distils  two  sorts  of 
gums :  one  extremely  clinging,  hardening  as 
soon  as  it  touches  the  air,  to  glue  the  pollen- 
horns  to  the  insect's  head;  the  other  greatly 

312 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

lenified,  for  the  work  of  the  stigma.  This 
latter  is  just  prehensile  enough  slightly  to 
unfasten  or  loosen  the  tenuous  and  elastic 
threads  with  which  the  grains  of  pollen  are 
tied  up.  Some  of  these  grains  cling  to  it, 
but  the  pollinic  mass  is  not  destroyed;  and, 
when  the  insect  visits  other  flowers,  she  will 
continue  her  fertilising  labours  almost  in- 
definitely. 

Have  I  expounded  the  whole  miracle? 
No;  I  have  still  to  call  attention  to  many 
a  neglected  detail:  among  others,  to  the 
movement  of  the  little  stoup,  which,  after 

4 

its  membrane  has  been  ruptured  to  unmask 
the  viscid  balls,  immediately  lifts  up  its 
lower  rim  in  order  to  keep  in  good 
condition,  in  the  sticky  fluid,  the  packet  of 
pollen  which  the  insect  may  not  have  car- 
ried off.  We  should  also  note  the  very 
curiously  combined  divergence  of  the 
pollinic  stalks  on  the  head  of  the  insect,  as 
well  as  certain  chemical  precautions  com- 

313 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

mon  to  all  plants;  for  the  experiments  made 
quite  recently  by  M.  Gaston  Bonnier  seem 
to  prove  that  every  flower,  in  order  to  pre- 
serve its  species  intact,  secretes  poisons  that 
destroy  or  sterilise  any  foreign  pollen. 
This  is  about  all  that  we  see;  but  here,  as 
in  all  things,  the  real,  the  great  miracle  be- 
gins where  our  power  of  vision  ends. 

XVII 

I  have  just  this  moment  found,  in  an 
untilled  corner  of  the  olive-yard,  a  splendid 
sprig  of  Loroglossum  hircinum,  a  variety 
which,  for  I  know  not  what  reason  (per- 
haps it  is  very  rare  in  England),  Darwin 
omitted  to  study.  It  is  certainly  the  most 
remarkable,  the  most  fantastic,  the  most 
astounding  of  all  our  native  Orchids.  If  it 
were  of  the  size  of  the  American  Orchids, 
one  could  declare  that  there  is  no  more 
fanciful    plant    in    existence.      Imagine    a 

314 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

thyrse,  like  that  of  the  Hyacinth,  but  twice 
as  tall.  It  is  symmetrically  adorned  with 
ill-favoured,  three-cornered  flowers,  of  a 
greenish  white  stippled  with  pale  violet. 
The  lower  petal,  embellished  at  its  source 
with  bronzed  caruncles,  huge  mustachios 
and  sinister-looking  lilac  buboes,  stretches 
out  interminably,  madly,  unreally,  in  the 
shape  of  a  corkscrew  riband  of  the  colour 
assumed  by  a  drowned  corpse  after  a 
month's  immersion  in  the  river.  From 
the  whole,  which  conjures  up  the 
idea  of  the  most  fearsome  maladies  and 
seems  to  blossom  in  some  vague  land  of 
ironical  nightmares  and  witcheries,  there 
issues  a  potent  and  abominable  stench  as 
of  a  poisoned  goat,  which  spreads  afar  and 
reveals  the  presence  of  the  monster.  I  am 
pointing  to  and  describing  this  nauseating 
Orchid  because  it  is  fairly  common  in 
France,  is  easily  recognised  and  adapts  it- 
self very  well,  by  reason  of  its  height  and 

315 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

the  distinctness  of  its  organs,  to  any  experi- 
ments that  one  might  wish  to  make.  We 
have  only,  in  fact,  to  introduce  the  tip  of 
a  match  into  the  flower  and  to  push  it 
carefully  to  the  bottom  of  the  nectary, 
in  order,  with  the  naked  eye,  to  witness  all 
the  successive  revolutions  of  the  process  of 
fertilisation.  Grazed  in  passing,  the  pouch 
or  rostellum  sinks  down,  exposing  the  little 
viscid  disc  (the  Loroglossum  has  only  one) 
that  supports  the  two  pollen-stalks.  As 
soon  as  this  disc  violently  grips  the  end  of 
the  wood,  the  two  cells  that  contain  the 
pollen-balls  open  longitudinally;  and,  when 
the  match  is  withdrawn,  its  tip  is  firmly 
capped  with  two  stiff,  diverging  horns, 
ending  in  two  golden  balls.  Unfortunately, 
we  do  not  here,  as  in  the  experiment  with 
the  Orchis  latifolia,  enjoy  the  charming 
spectacle  offered  by  the  gradual  and  precise 
inclination  of  the  two  horns.  Why  are 
they  not  lowered?     We  have  but  to  in- 

316 


The   Intelligence   of  the   Flowers 

troduce  the  capped  match  into  a  neigh- 
bouring nectary  to  ascertain  that  this 
movement  would  be  superfluous,  the  flower 
being  much  larger  than  that  of  the  Orchis 
metadata  or  latifolia  and  the  nectar-horn 
arranged  in  such  a  way  that,  when  the 
insect  laden  with  the  pollen-masses  enters 
it,  they  just  reach  the  level  of  the  stigma 
to  be  fertilised. 

Let  us  add  that  it  is  important  to  the 
success  of  the  experiment  to  select  a  flower 
that  is  quite  ripe.  We  do  not  know  when 
the  flower  is  ripe;  but  the  insect  and  the 
flower  itself  know,  for  the  flower  does  not 
invite  its  necessary  guests,  by  offering  them 
a  drop  of  nectar,  until  the  moment  comes 
when  all  its  apparatus  is  ready  to  work. 

XVIII 

This  is  the  basis  of  the  system  of  fertil- 
isation adopted  by  the  Orchid  of  our  climes. 
But  each  species,  every  family  modifies  and 

317 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

improves  the  details  in  accordance  with  its 
particular  experience,  psychology  and  con- 
venience. The  Orchis  or  Anacamptis 
pyramidalis,  for  instance,  which  is  one  of 
the  most  intelligent,  has  added  to  its  lower 
lip  or  labellum  two  little  ridges  which  guide 
the  proboscis  of  the  insect  to  the  nectar  and 
compel  her  to  accomplish  exactly  what  is 
expected  of  her.  Darwin  very  justly  com- 
pares this  ingenious  accessory  with  the  little 
instrument  for  guiding  a  thread  into  the 
fine  eye  of  a  needle.  Here  is  another  inter- 
esting improvement:  the  two  little  balls 
that  carry  the  pollen-stalks  and  soak  in  the 
stoup  are  replaced  by  a  single  viscid 
disc,  shaped  like  a  saddle.  If,  following 
the  road  to  be  taken  by  the  insect's  probos- 
cis, we  insert  the  point  of  a  needle  or  a 
bristle  into  the  flower,  we  very  plainly  per- 
ceive the  advantages  of  this  simpler  and 
more  practical  arrangement.  As  the  bristle 
touches  the  stoup,  the  latter  is  ruptured  in 

318 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

a  symmetrical  line  and  uncovers  the  saddle- 
formed  disc,  which  at  once  becomes 
attached  to  the  bristle.  Withdraw  the 
bristle  smartly  and  you  will  just  have  time 
to  catch  the  pretty  action  of  the  saddle, 
which,  seated  on  the  bristle  or  needle,  curls 
its  two  flaps  inwards,  so  as  to  embrace  the 
object  that  supports  it.  The  purpose  of 
this  movement  is  to  strengthen  the  adhesive 
power  of  the  saddle  and,  above  all,  to  en- 
sure with  greater  precision  than  in  the 
Orchis  latifolia  the  indispensable  divergence 
of  the  pollen-stalks.  As  soon  as  the  saddle 
has  curled  round  the  bristle  and  as  the 
pollen-stalks  planted  in  it,  drawn  apart  by 
its  contraction,  are  forced  to  diverge,  the 
second  movement  of  the  stalks  begins  and 
they  bend  towards  the  tip  of  the  bristle,  in 
the  same  manner  as  in  the  Orchid  which 
we  have  already  studied.  The  two  move- 
ments combined  are  performed  in  thirty  to 
thirty-four  seconds. 

319 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

XIX 

Is  it  not  exactly  in  this  manner,  by  means 
of  trifles,  of  successive  overhaulings  and 
retouches,  that  human  inventions  proceed? 
We  have  all,  in  the  latest  of  our  mechanical 
industries,  followed  the  tiny,  but  constant 
improvements  in  the  sparking,  the  carbu- 
ration,  the  clutch  and  the  speed-gear.  It 
would  really  seem  as  though  ideas  came  to 
the  flowers  in  the  same  way  as  to  us.  The 
flowers  grope  in  the  same  darkness,  en- 
counter the  same  obstacles,  the  same  ill-will, 
in  the  same  unknown.  They  have  the  same 
laws,  the  same  disillusions,  the  same  slow 
and  difficult  triumphs.  They  would  appear 
to  possess  our  patience,  our  perseverance, 
our  self-love,  the  same  varied  and  diversi- 
fied intelligence,  almost  the  same  hopes  and 
the  same  ideals.  They  struggle,  like  our- 
selves, against  a  great  indifferent  force  that 
ends  by  assisting  them.     Their  inventive 

320 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

imagination  not  only  follows  the  same 
prudent  and  minute  methods,  the  same 
tiring,  narrow  and  winding  little  paths:  it 
also  has  unexpected  leaps  and  bounds  that 
suddenly  fix  definitely  an  uncertain  discov- 
ery. It  is  thus  that  a  family  of  great  in- 
ventors among  the  Orchids,  a  strange  and 
rich  American  family,  that  of  the  Catase- 
tida,  thanks  to  a  bold  inspiration,  abruptly 
altered  a  number  of  habits  that  doubtless 
appeared  to  it  too  primitive.  First  of  all, 
the  separation  of  the  sexes  is  absolute :  each 
has  its  particular  flower.  Next,  the  pol- 
linium,  or  mass  or  packet  of  pollen,  no 
longer  dips  its  stalk  in  a  stoup  full  of  gum, 
there  awaiting,  a  little  inertly  and,  in  any 
case,  without  initiative,  the  lucky  accident 
that  is  to  fix  it  on  the  insect's  head.  It  is 
bent  back  on  a  powerful  spring,  in  a  sort 
of  cell.  Nothing  attracts  the  insect  specially 
in  the  direction  of  this  cell.  Nor  have  the 
proud  Catasetida  reckoned,  like  the  com- 

321 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

mon  Orchid,  on  this  or  that  movement  of 
the  visitor :  a  guided  and  precise  movement, 
if  you  wish,  but  nevertheless  a  contingent 
movement.  No,  the  insect  no  longer  enters 
a  flower  endowed  with  an  admirable  mech- 
anism :  she  enters  an  animated  and  literally 
sensitive  flower.  Hardly  has  she  pitched 
upon  the  magnificent  outer  court  of  copper- 
coloured  silk  before  long  and  nervous  feel- 
ers, which  she  cannot  avoid  touching,  carry 
the  alarm  all  over  the  edifice.  Forthwith 
the  cell  is  torn  asunder  in  which  the  pollen- 
mass,  divided  into  two  packets,  is  held 
captive  on  its  bent-back  pedicel,  which  is 
supported  on  a  huge  viscid  disc.  Abruptly 
released,  the  pedicel  straightens  itself  like 
a  spring,  dragging  with  it  the  two  packets 
of  pollen  and  the  viscid  disc,  which  are 
violently  projected  outside.  In  consequence 
of  a  curious  ballistic  calculation,  the  disc  is 
always  flung  first  and  strikes  the  insect,  to 
whom   it   adheres.      She,   stunned   by   the 

322 


The   Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

blow,  has  but  one  thought:  to  leave  the 
aggressive  corolla  with  all  speed  and  take 
refuge  in  a  neighbouring  flower.  This  is  all 
that  the  American  Orchid  wanted. 

XX 

Shall  I  describe  also  the  curious  and  prac- 
tical simplifications  introduced  into  the  gen- 
eral system  by  another  family  of  exotic 
Orchids,  the  Cypripedea?  Let  us  continue 
to  bear  in  mind  the  circumvolutions  of 
human  inventions :  we  have  here  an  amus- 
ing counter-proof.  A  fitter,  in  the  engine- 
room,  a  preparator,  a  pupil,  in  the  labora- 
tory, says,  one  day,  to  his  principal: 

"Suppose  we  tried  to  do  just  the  opposite? 
Suppose  we  reversed  the  movement,  sup- 
pose we  inverted  the  mixture  of  the  fluids?" 

The  experiment  is  tried;  and  suddenly 
from  the  unknown  issues  the  unexpected. 

One  could  easily  believe  the  Cypripedea 

323 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

to  have  held  similar  conversations  among 
themselves.  We  all  know  the  Cypripedium, 
or  Ladies'-slipper:  with  its  enormous  shoe- 
shaped  chin,  its  crabbed  and  venomous  air, 
it  is  the  most  characteristic  flower  of  our 
hothouses,  the  one  that  seems  to  us  the 
typical  Orchid,  so  to  speak.  The  Cypri- 
pedium has  bravely  suppressed  all  the  com- 
plicated and  delicate  apparatus  of  the 
springy  pollen-masses,  the  diverging  stalks, 
the  viscid  discs,  the  cunning  gums  and  the 
rest.  Its  clog-like  chin  and  a  barren,  shield- 
shaped  anther  bar  the  entrance  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  compel  the  insect  to  pass  its 
proboscis  over  two  little  heaps  of  pollen. 
But  this  is  not  the  important  point:  the 
wholly  unexpected  and  abnormal  thing  is 
that,  contrary  to  what  we  have  observed 
in  all  the  other  species,  it  is  no  longer  the 
stigma,  the  female  organ  that  is  viscid,  but 
the  pollen  itself,  whose  grains,  instead  of 
being  pulverulent,  are  covered  with  a  coat 

324 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

so  glutinous  that  it  can  be  stretched  and 
drawn  into  threads.  What  are  the  advan- 
tages and  the  drawbacks  of  this  new  ar- 
rangement? It  is  to  be  feared  that  the 
pollen  carried  off  by  the  insect  may  adhere 
to  any  object  other  than  the  stigma;  on  the 
other  hand,  the  stigma  is  dispensed  from 
secreting  the  fluid  destined  to  sterilise  every 
foreign  pollen.  In  any  case,  this  problem 
would  demand  a  special  study.  In  the 
same  way,  there  are  patents  whose  useful- 
ness we  do  not  grasp  at  once. 

XXI 

To  have  done  with  this  strange  tribe  of 
the  Orchids,  it  remains  for  us  to  say  a  few 
words  on  an  auxiliary  organ  that  sets  the 
whole  mechanism  going:  I  mean  the  nec- 
tary, which,  for  that  matter,  has  been  the 
object,  on  the  part  of  the  genius  of  the 
species,  of  enquiries,  attempts  and  experi- 
ments as  intelligent  and  as  varied  as  those 

32s 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

which  are  incessantly  modifying  the  econ- 
omy of  the  essential  organs. 

The  nectary,  as  we  have  seen,  is,  in  prin- 
ciple, a  sort  of  spur,  of  long,  pointed  horn 
that  opens  right  at  the  bottom  of  the 
flower,  beside  the  peduncle,  and  acts  more 
or  less  as  a  counterpoise  to  the  corolla.  It 
contains  a  sugary  liquid,  the  nectar,  which 
serves  as  food  for  butterflies,  beetles  and 
other  insects  and  which  is  turned  into 
honey  by  the  bee.  Its  business,  therefore, 
is  to  attract  the  indispensable  guests.  It 
is  adapted  to  their  size,  their  habits,  their 
tastes;  it  is  always  arranged  in  such  a  way 
that  they  cannot  introduce  or  withdraw 
their  proboscis  without  scrupulously  and 
successively  performing  all  the  rights  pre- 
scribed by  the  organic  laws  of  the  flower. 

We  already  know  enough  of  the  fantastic 
character  and  imagination  of  the  Orchids 
to  foresee  that  here,  as  elsewhere — and 
even  more  than  elsewhere,   for  the  more 

326 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

supple  organ  lends  itself  to  this  more  read- 
ily— their  inventive,  practical,  observant 
and  groping  spirit  has  given  itself  free 
scope.  One  of  them,  for  instance,  the  Sar- 
canthus  teretifolius,  probably  failing  in  its 
endeavour  to  elaborate  a  viscid  fluid  that 
should  harden  quickly  enough  to  stick  the 
bundle  of  pollen  to  the  insect's  head,  has 
overcome  the  difficulty  by  delaying  the 
visitor's  proboscis  as  long  as  possible  in  the 
narrow  passages  leading  to  the  nectar.  The 
labyrinth  which  it  has  laid  out  is  so  com- 
plicated that  Bauer,  Darwin's  skilful 
draughtsman,  had  to  admit  himself  beaten 
and  gave  up  the  attempt  to  reproduce  it. 

There  are  some  which,  starting  on  the 
excellent  principle  that  every  simplification 
is  an  improvement,  have  boldly  suppressed 
the  nectar-horn.  They  have  replaced  it  by 
certain  fleshy,  fantastic  and  evidently  suc- 
culent excrescences  which  are  nibbled  by  the 
insects.     Is  it  necessary  to  add  that  these 

327 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

excrescences  are  always  placed  in  such  a 
manner  that  the  guest  who  feasts  on  them 
must  inevitably  set  all  the  pollen-machinery 
in  movement? 

XXII 

But,  without  lingering  over  a  thousand 
very  various  little  artifices,  let  us  end  these 
fairy  stories  by  studying  the  enticements 
of  the  Coryanthes  macrantha.  Truly,  we 
no  longer  know  with  exactly  what  sort  of 
being  we  here  have  to  do.  The  astounding 
Orchid  has  contrived  this:  its  lower  lip  or 
labellum  forms  a  sort  of  bucket,  into  which 
drops  of  almost  pure  water,  secreted  by  two 
horns  situated  overhead,  fall  continually; 
when  this  bucket  is  half  full,  the  water 
flows  away  on  one  side  by  a  spout  or  gutter. 
All  this  hydraulic  installation  is  very  re- 
markable in  itself;  but  here  is  where  the 
alarming,  I  might  almost  say  the  diabolical 
side  of  the  combination  begins.    The  liquid 

328 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

which  is  secreted  by  the  horns  and  which 
accumulates  in  the  satin  basin  is  not  nectar 
and  is  in  no  way  intended  to  attract  the 
insects:  it  has  a  much  more  delicate  func- 
tion in  the  really  machiavellian  plan  of  this 
strange  flower.  The  artless  insects  are  in- 
vited by  the  sugary  perfumes  diffused  by 
the  fleshy  excrescences  of  which  I  spoke 
above  to  walk  into  the  trap.  These  ex- 
crescences are  above  the  cup,  in  a  sort  of 
chamber  to  which  two  lateral  openings  give 
access.  The  big  visiting  bee — the  flower, 
being  enormous,  allures  hardly  any  but  the 
heaviest  Hymenoptera,  as  though  the 
others  experienced  a  certain  shame  at  enter- 
ing such  vast  and  sumptuous  halls — the  big 
bee  begins  to  nibble  the  savoury  caruncles. 
If  she  were  alone,  she  would  go  away 
quietly,  after  finishing  her  meal,  without 
even  grazing  the  bucket  of  water,  the 
stigma  and  the  pollen;  and  none  of  that 
which  is  required  would  take  place.     But 

329 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

the  sapient  Orchid  observes  the  life  that 
moves  around  it.  It  knows  that  the  bees 
form  an  innumerable,  greedy  and  busy 
people,  that  they  come  out  by  thousands  in 
the  sunny  hours,  that  a  perfume  has  but  to 
quiver  like  a  kiss  on  the  threshold  of  an 
opening  flower  for  them  to  hasten  in  a 
crowd  to  the  banquet  prepared  under  the 
nuptial  tent.  We  therefore  have  two  or 
three  looters  in  the  sugary  chamber:  the 
space  is  scanty,  the  walls  slippery,  the 
guests  ill-mannered.  They  crowd  and 
hustle  one  another  to  such  good  purpose 
that  one  of  them  always  ends  by  falling 
into  the  bucket  that  awaits  her  beneath  the 
treacherous  repast.  She  there  finds  an  un- 
expected bath,  conscientiously  wets  her 
bright,  diaphanous  wings  and,  despite  im- 
mense efforts,  cannot  succeed  in  resuming 
her  flight.  This  is  where  the  astute  flower 
lies  in  wait  for  her.  There  is  but  one  open- 
ing through  which  she  can  leave  the  magic 

330 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

bucket:  the  spout  that  acts  as  a  waste-pipe 
for  the  overflow  of  the  reservoir.  It  is 
just  wide  enough  to  allow  of  the  passage 
of  the  insect,  whose  back  touches  first  the 
sticky  surface  of  the  stigma  and  then  the 
viscid  glands  of  the  pollen-masses  that 
await  her  along  the  vault.  She  thus  escapes, 
laden  with  the  adhesive  dust,  and  enters  a 
neighbouring  flower,  where  the  tragedy  of 
the  banquet,  the  hustling,  the  fall,  the  bath 
and  the  escape  is  reenacted  and  perforce 
brings  the  imported  pollen  into  contact  with 
the  greedy  stigma. 

Here,  then,  we  have  a  flower  that  knows 
and  plays  upon  the  passions  of  insects.  Nor 
can  it  be  pretended  that  all  these  are  only 
so  many  more  or  less  romantic  interpreta- 
tions :  no,  the  facts  have  been  precisely  and 
scientifically  observed  and  it  is  impossible 
to  explain  the  use  and  arrangement  of  the 
flower's  different  organs  in  any  other  way. 
We  must  accept  the  evidence  as  it  stands. 

331 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

This  incredible  and  efficacious  artifice  is  the 
more  surprising  inasmuch  as  it  does  not 
here  tend  to  satisfy  the  immediate  and 
urgent  need  to  eat  that  sharpens  the  dullest 
wits;  it  has  only  a  distant  ideal  in  view:  the 
propagation  of  the  species. 

But  why,  we  shall  be  asked,  these  fan- 
tastic complications  which  end  only  by  in- 
creasing the  dangers  of  chance?  Let  us 
not  hasten  to  give  judgment  and  reply. 
We  know  nothing  of  the  reasons  of  the 
plant.  Do  we  know  what  obstacles  the 
flower  encounters  in  the  direction  of  logic 
and  simplicity?  Do  we  know  thoroughly  a 
single  one  of  the  organic  laws  of  its  ex- 
istence and  its  growth?  One  watching  us 
from  the  height  of  Mars  or  Venus,  as  we 
exert  ourselves  to  achieve  the  conquest  of 
the  air,  might,  in  his  turn,  ask: 

"Why  those  shapeless  and  monstrous 
machines,  those  balloons,  those  air-ships, 
those  parachutes,  when  it  were  so  easy  to 

332 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

copy  the  birds  and  to  supply  the  arms  with 
a  pair  of  all-sufficing  wings?" 

XXIII 

To  these  proofs  of  intelligence,  man's 
somewhat  puerile  vanity  opposes  the  tra- 
ditional objection:  yes,  they  create  marvels, 
but  those  marvels  remain  eternally  the 
same.  Each  species,  each  variety  has  its 
system  and,  from  generation  to  generation, 
introduces  no  perceptible  improvement.  It 
is  true  that,  since  we  have  been  observing 
them — that  is  to  say,  during  the  past  fifty 
years — we  have  not  seen  the  Coryanthes 
macrantha  or  the  Catasetidte  perfect  their 
trap:  this  is  all  that  we  can  say;  and  it  is 
really  not  enough.  Have  we  as  much  as 
attempted  the  most  elementary  experi- 
ments ;  and  do  we  know  what  the  successive 
generations  of  our  astonishing  bathing 
Orchid  might  do  in  a  century's  time,  if 
placed    in    different   surroundings,    among 

333 


The   Measure  of  the  Hours 

insects  to  which  it  was  not  accustomed? 
Besides,  the  names  which  we  give  to  the 
orders,  species  and  varieties  end  by  deceiv- 
ing ourselves;  and  we  thus  create  imaginary 
types  which  we  believe  to  be  fixed,  whereas 
they  are  probably  only  the  representatives 
of  one  and  the  same  flower,  which  continues 
to  modify  its  organs  slowly  in  accordance 
with  slow  circumstances. 

The  flowers  came  upon  our  earth  before 
the  insects;  they  had,  therefore,  when  the 
latter  appeared,  to  adapt  an  entirely  new 
system  of  machinery  to  the  habits  of  these 
unexpected  collaborators.  This  geologi- 
cally-incontestable fact  alone,  amid  all  that 
which  we  do  not  know,  is  enough  to  estab- 
lish evolution;  and  does  not  this  some- 
what vague  word  mean,  after  all,  adapta- 
tion, modification,  intelligent  progress? 

It  would  be  easy,  moreover,  without  ap- 
pealing to  this  prehistoric  event,  to  bring 
together  a   large  number  of  facts  which 

334 


The   Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

would  show  that  the  faculty  of  adaptation 
and  intelligent  progress  is  not  reserved  ex- 
clusively for  the  human  race.  Without 
returning  to  the  detailed  chapters  which  I 
have  devoted  to  this  subject  in  The  Life  of 
the  Bee,  I  will  simply  recall  two  or  three 
topical  details  which  are  there  mentioned. 
The  bees,  for  instance,  invented  the  hive. 
In  the  wild  and  primitive  state  and  in 
their  country  of  origin,  they  work  in  the 
open  air.  It  was  the  uncertainty,  the  in- 
clemency of  our  northern  seasons  that  gave 
them  the  idea  of  seeking  a  shelter  in  hollow 
trees  or  a  hole  in  the  rocks.  This  ingenious 
idea  restored  to  the  work  of  looting  and  to 
the  care  of  the  eggs  the  thousands  of  bees 
stationed  around  the  combs  to  maintain  the 
necessary  heat.  It  is  not  uncommon,  es- 
pecially in  the  South,  during  exceptionally 
mild  summers,  to  find  them  reverting  to  the 
tropical  manners  of  their  ancestors.1 

1  I   had  just  written   these   lines,   when   M.  E.  L. 
Bouvier  made   a  communication  in    the   Academy  of 

335 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

Another  fact :  when  transported  to  Aus- 
tralia or  California,  our  black  bee  com- 
pletely alters  her  habits.  After  one  or  two 
years,  finding  that  summer  is  perpetual  and 
flowers  for  ever  abundant,  she  will  live 
from  day  to  day,  content  to  gather  the 
honey  and  pollen  indispensable  for  the 
day's  consumption;  and,  her  recent  and 
thoughtful    observation    triumphing    over 

Science  (<-_/".  the  report  of  the  7th  of  May,  1906)  on 
the  subject  of  two  nidifications  in  the  open  air  observed 
in  Paris,  one  in  a  Sofhora  Japonica,  the  other  in  a 
chestnut-tree.  The  latter,  which  hung  from  a  small 
branch  furnished  with  two  almost  contiguous  forks, 
was  the  more  remarkable  of  the  two,  because  of  its 
evident  and  intelligent  adaptation  to  particularly  diffi- 
cult circumstances. 

"The  bees,"  says  M.  de  Parville,  in  his  summary 
in  the  science-column  of  the  Journal  des  Debuts  of 
the  31st  of  May,  1906,  "built  consolidating  pillars 
and  resorted  to  really  remarkable  artifices  of  protection 
and  ended  by  transforming  the  two  forks  of  the  chest- 
nut-tree into  a  solid  ceiling.  An  ingenious  human 
being  would  certainly  not  have  done  so  well. 

"To  protect  themselves  against  the  rain,  they  had 
installed  fences,  thickenings  and  blinds  against  the  sun. 
One  can  have  no  idea  of  the  perfection  of  the  industry 
of  the  bees,  except  by  observing  the  architecture  of  the 
two  nidifications,  now  at  the  Museum." 

336 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

hereditary  experience,  she  will  cease  to 
make  provision  for  her  winter.  Biichner 
mentions  an  analogous  fact,  which  also 
proves  the  bees'  adaptation  to  circum- 
stances, not  slow,  secular,  unconscious  and 
fatal,  but  immediate  and  intelligent:  in  Bar- 
bados, the  bees  whose  hives  are  in  the  midst 
of  the  refineries,  where  they  find  sugar  in 
plenty  during  the  whole  year,  will  entirely 
abandon  their  visits  to  the  flowers. 

Let  us  us  lastly  recall  the  amusing  contra- 
diction which  the  bees  gave  to  two  learned 
English  entomologists,  Kirkby  and  Spence: 

"Show  us,"  said  these,  "a  single  case  in 
which,  under  stress  of  circumstances,  the 
bees  have  had  the  idea  of  substituting  clay 
or  mortar  for  wax  and  propolis  and  we  will 
admit  their  reasoning  faculties." 

Hardly  had  they  expressed  this  somewhat 
arbitrary  wish,  when  another  naturalist, 
Andrew  Knight,  having  coated  the  bark  of 
certain  trees  with  a  sort  of  cement  made  of 

337 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

wax  and  turpentine,  observed  that  his  bees 
entirely  ceased  to  gather  propolis  and  em- 
ployed only  this  new  and  unknown  sub- 
stance, which  they  found  prepared  in  abun- 
dance in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  home. 
Moreover,  in  the  practice  of  apiculture, 
when  pollen  is  scarce,  the  bee-keeper  has 
but  to  place  a  few  handfuls  of  flour  at  their 
disposal  for  them  at  once  to  understand 
that  this  can  serve  the  same  purpose  and  be 
turned  to  the  same  use  as  the  dust  of  the 
anthers,  although  its  taste,  smell  and  colour 
are  absolutely  different. 

What  I  have  just  said,  in  the  matter  of 
the  bees,  might,  I  think,  mutatis  mutandis, 
be  confirmed  in  the  kingdom  of  the  flowers, 
I  have  referred  above  to  my  humble  experi- 
ments in  the  wonderful  evolutionary  efforts 
of  the  numerous  varieties  of  the  Sage. 
And  a  curious  study  by  Babinet  on  the 
cereals  tells  us  that  certain  plants,  when 
transported    far    from   their   habitual   cli- 

338 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

mate,  observe  the  new  circumstances  and 
avail  themselves  of  them,  exactly  as  the 
bees  do.  Thus,  in  the  hottest  regions  of 
Asia,  Africa  and  America,  where  the 
winter  does  not  kill  it  annually,  our  corn 
becomes  again  what  it  must  have  been  at 
first,  a  perennial  plant,  like  grass.  It  re- 
mains always  green,  multiplies  by  the  root 
and  no  longer  bears  ears  or  grains.  When, 
therefore,  from  its  original  and  tropical 
country,  it  came  to  be  acclimatised  in  our 
icy  regions,  it  must  have  had  to  upset  its 
habits  and  invent  a  new  method  of  multi- 
plication.    As  Babinet  well  says: 

"The  organism  of  the  plant,  thanks  to 
an  inconceivable  miracle,  seemed  to  foresee 
the  need  of  passing  through  the  grain  state, 
lest  it  should  perish  completely  during  the 
severe  season." 


339 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

XXIV 

In  any  case,  to  destroy  the  objection  which 
we  mentioned  above  and  which  has  caused 
us  to  travel  so  far  from  our  immediate 
subject,  it  would  be  enough  to  establish  one 
act  of  intelligent  progress,  were  it  but  for 
a  single  occasion,  outside  mankind.  But, 
apart  from  the  pleasure  which  one  takes 
in  refuting  an  over-vain  and  out-of-date 
argument,  how  little  importance,  when  all 
is  said,  attaches  to  this  question  of  the  per- 
sonal intelligence  of  the  flowers,  the  insects 
or  the  birds !  Suppose  that  we  say,  speak- 
ing of  the  Orchid  and  the  bee  alike,  that  it 
is  nature  and  not  the  plant  or  the  insect  that 
calculates,  that  combines,  that  adorns,  in- 
vents and  thinks:  what  interest  can  this  dis- 
tinction have  for  us?  A  much  loftier  ques- 
tion and  one  much  worthier  of  our  eager 
attention  towers  over  these  details.  What 
we  have  to  do  is  to  grasp  the  character,  the 

340 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

quality,  the  habits  and  perhaps  the  object 
of  the  general  intelligence  whence  emanate 
all  the  intelligent  acts  performed  upon  this 
earth.  It  is  from  this  point  of  view  that 
the  study  of  those  creatures — the  ants  and 
the  bees,  among  others — in  which,  outside 
the  human  form,  the  proceedings  and  the 
ideal  of  that  genius  are  most  clearly  mani- 
fested becomes  one  of  the  most  curious  that 
we  can  undertake.  It  is  clear,  after  all  that 
we  have  shown,  that  those  tendencies,  those 
intellectual  methods  must  be  at  least  as 
complex,  as  advanced,  as  startling  in  the 
Orchids  as  in  the  gregarious  Hymenoptera. 
Let  us  add  that  a  large  number  of  the 
motives  and  a  portion  of  the  logic  of  these 
restless  insects,  so  difficult  of  observation, 
still  escape  us,  whereas  we  can  grasp  with 
ease  all  the  silent  motives,  all  the  wise  and 
stable  arguments  of  the  peaceful  flower. 


341 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

XXV 

Now  what  do  we  observe,  when  we  per- 
ceive nature  (or  the  general  intelligence  or 
the  universal  genius :  the  name  matters  but 
little)  at  work  in  the  Orchid  world  ?  Many 
things;  and,  to  mention  it  only  in  passing, 
for  the  subject  would  offer  facilities  for  a 
long  study,  we  begin  by  ascertaining  that 
her  idea  of  beauty,  of  gladness,  her  meth- 
ods of  attraction,  her  aesthetic  tastes  are 
very  near  akin  to  our  own.  But  no  doubt 
it  would  be  more  correct  to  state  that  ours 
are  congenial  with  hers.  It  is,  in  fact,  very 
uncertain  whether  we  have  ever  invented  a 
beauty  peculiar  to  ourselves.  All  our  archi- 
tectural, all  our  musical  motives,  all  our 
harmonies  of  colour  and  light  are  borrowed 
directly  from  nature.  Without  calling  upon 
the  sea,  the  mountains,  the  skies,  the  night, 
the  twilight,  what  might  one  not  say,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  beauty  of  the  trees?    I  speak 

342 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

not  only  of  the  tree  considered  in  the  forest, 
where  it  is  one  of  the  powers  of  the  earth, 
perhaps  the  chief  source  of  our  instincts,  of 
our  sense  of  the  universe,  but  of  the  tree  in 
itself,  the  solitary  tree,  whose  green  old  age 
is  laden  with  a  thousand  seasons.  Among 
those  impressions  which,  without  our  know- 
ing it,  form  the  limpid  hollow  and  perhaps 
the  subsoil  of  happiness  and  calm  of  our 
whole  existence,  which  of  us  does  not  pre- 
sence the  recollection  of  a  few  fine  trees? 
When  a  man  has  passed  mid-life,  when  he 
has  come  to  the  end  of  the  wondering 
period,  when  he  has  exhausted  nigh  all  the 
sights  that  the  art,  the  genius  and  the  lux- 
ury of  ages  and  men  can  offer,  after  experi- 
encing and  comparing  many  things  he 
returns  to  very  simple  memories.  They 
raise  upon  the  purified  horizon  two  or  three 
innocent,  invariable  and  refreshing  images, 
which  he  would  wish  to  carry  away  with 
him  in  his  last  sleep,  if  it  be  true  that  an 

343 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

image  can  pass  the  threshold  that  separates 
our  two  worlds.  For  myself,  I  can  imagine 
no  paradise  nor  after-life,  however  splen- 
did it  may  be,  in  which  a  certain  magnifi- 
cent Oak  would  be  out  of  place,  or  a  certain 
Cypress,  or  a  Parasol  Pine  of  Florence  or 
of  a  charming  hermitage  near  my  own 
house,  any  one  of  which  affords  to  the 
passer-by  a  model  of  all  the  great  move- 
ments of  necessary  resistance,  of  peaceful 
courage,  of  soaring,  of  gravity,  of  silent 
victory  and  of  perseverance. 

XXVI 

But  I  am  wandering  too  far  afield :  I  in- 
tended only  to  remark,  with  reference  to 
the  flower,  that  nature,  when  she  wishes  to 
be  beautiful,  to  please,  to  delight  and  to 
prove  herself  happy,  does  almost  what  we 
should  do  had  we  her  treasures  at  our  dis- 
posal. I  know  that,  speaking  thus,  I  am 
speaking  a  little  like  the  bishop  who  was 

344 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

astonished  that  Providence  always  made 
the  great  streams  flow  close  to  the  big 
cities;  but  it  is  difficult  to  look  upon  these 
things  from  any  other  than  a  human  point 
of  view.  Let  us,  then,  from  this  point  of 
view,  consider  that  we  should  know  very 
few  signs  or  expressions  of  happiness  if  we 
did  not  know  the  flower.  In  order  well 
to  judge  of  its  power  of  gladness  and 
beauty,  one  must  live  in  a  part  of  the 
country  where  it  reigns  undivided,  such  as 
the  corner  of  Provence,  between  the  Siagne 
and  the  Loup,  in  which  I  am  writing  these 
lines.  Here,  truly,  the  flower  is  the  sole 
sovereign  of  the  hills  and  valleys.  The 
peasants  have  lost  the  habit  of  cultivating 
corn,  as  though  they  had  now  only  to  pro- 
vide for  the  needs  of  a  subtle  race  of 
mankind  that  lived  on  sweet  fragrance  and 
ambrosia.  The  fields  form  one  great  nose- 
gay, which  is  incessantly  renewed,  and  the 
perfumes  that  succeed  one  another  seem  to 

345 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

dance  their  rounds  all  through  the  azure 
year.     Anemones,   Gilliflowers,   Mimosas, 
Violets,  Pinks,  Narcissuses,  Hyacinths,  Jon- 
quils, Mignonette,  Jasmine  invade  the  days, 
the  nights,  the  winter,  summer,  spring  and 
autumn  months.     But  the  magnificent  hour 
belongs  to  the  Roses  of  May.     Then,  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  see,  from  the  slope  of 
the  hills  to  the  hollow  of  the  plains,  be- 
tween dikes  of  Vines  and  Olive-trees,  they 
flow  on  every  side  like  a  stream  of  petals 
whence  emerge  the  houses  and  the  trees,  a 
stream  of  the  colour  which  we  assign  to 
youth,  health  and  joy.    The  aroma,  at  once 
warm     and     refreshing,     but     above     all 
spacious,  that  opens  up  the  sky  emanates, 
one  would  think,  directly  from  the  sources 
of  beatitude.     The  roads,  the  paths  are 
carved  in  the  pulp  of  the  flower,  in  the  very 
substance  of  Eden.     For  the  first  time  in 
one's  life,  one  seems  to  have  a  satisfying 
vision  of  happiness. 

346 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

XXVII 

Still  from  our  human  point  of  view  and 
persevering  in  the  necessary  illusion,  let  us 
add  to  our  first  remark  one  a  little  more 
extensive,  a  little  less  hazardous  and  per- 
haps big  with  consequences,  namely,  that 
the  genius  of  the  earth,  which  is  probably 
that  of  the  whole  world,  acts,  in  the  vital 
struggle,  exactly  as  a  man  would  act.  It 
employs  the  same  methods,  the  same  logic. 
It  attains  its  aim  by  the  same  means  that 
we  would  use :  it  gropes,  it  hesitates,  it  cor- 
rects itself  time  after  time;  it  adds,  it  sup- 
presses, it  recognises  and  repairs  its  errors, 
as  we  should  do  in  its  place.  It  makes 
great  efforts,  it  invents  with  difficulty  and 
little  by  little,  after  the  manner  of  the 
workmen  and  engineers  in  our  workshops. 
It  fights  like  ourselves  against  the  heavy, 
huge  and  obscure  mass  of  its  being.  It 
knows  no  more  than  we  do  whither  it  is 

347 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

going;  it  seeks  and  finds  itself  gradually. 
It  has  an  ideal  that  is  often  confused,  but 
one  in  which,  nevertheless,  we  distinguish 
a  host  of  great  lines  that  rise  towards  a 
more  ardent,  complex,  nervous  and  spirit- 
ual form  of  existence.  Materially,  it  dis- 
poses of  infinite  resources,  it  knows  the 
secret  of  prodigious  forces  of  which  we 
know  nothing;  but,  intellectually,  it  appears 
strictly  to  occupy  our  sphere:  we  cannot 
prove  that,  hitherto,  it  has  exceeded  its  lim- 
its; and,  if  it  does  not  endeavour  to  take 
anything  from  beyond  that  sphere,  does 
this  not  mean  that  there  is  nothing  beyond 
it?  Does  it  not  mean  that  the  methods  of 
the  human  mind  are  the  only  possible  meth- 
ods, that  man  has  not  erred,  that  he  is 
neither  an  exception  nor  a  monster,  but  the 
being  through  whom  pass,  in  whom  are 
most  intensely  manifested  the  great  voli- 
tions, the  great  desires  of  the  universe? 


348 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

XXVIII 

The  touchstones  of  our  consciousness 
emerge  slowly,  grudgingly.  Perhaps 
Plato's  famous  figure  is  no  longer  sufficient : 
I  mean  the  cave  with  the  wall  above  it 
whence  the  shadows  of  unknown  men  and 
objects  are  thrown  into  the  cave  below; 
but,  if  we  tried  to  substitute  a  new  and 
more  exact  image  in  its  place,  this  would  be 
hardly  more  consoling.  Suppose  Plato's 
cave  enlarged.  No  ray  of  brightness  ever 
enters  it.  With  the  exception  of  light  and 
fire,  it  has  been  carefully  supplied  with  all 
that  our  civilisation  permits;  and  men  have 
been  imprisoned  in  it  from  their  birth. 
They  would  not  regret  the  light,  having 
never  seen  it;  they  would  not  be  blind, 
their  eyes  would  not  be  dead,  but,  having 
nothing  to  look  at,  would  probably  be- 
come the  most  sensitive  organ  of  touch. 

In  order  to  recognise  ourselves  in  their 

349 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

actions,  let  us  picture  these  wretches  in  their 
darkness,  in  the  midst  of  the  multitude 
of  unknown  objects  that  surround  them. 
What  quaint  mistakes,  what  incredible  de- 
viations, what  astounding  misinterpreta- 
tions must  needs  occur !  But  how  touching 
and  often  how  ingenious  would  seem  the 
use  which  they  would  make  of  things  that 
had  not  been  created  for  employment  in  the 
dark !  How  often  would  they  guess  aright  ? 
And  how  great  would  not  be  their  stupe- 
faction if,  suddenly,  by  the  light  of  day, 
they  discovered  the  nature  and  the  real  ob- 
ject of  utensils  and  furniture  which  they  had 
accommodated  as  best  they  could  to  the 
uncertainties  of  the  shade? 

And  yet  their  position  seems  simple  and 
easy  compared  with  our  own.  The  mystery 
in  which  they  crawl  is  limited.  They  are 
deprived  of  only  one  sense,  whereas  it  is 
impossible  to  estimate  the  number  of  those 
in  which  we  are  lacking.  The  cause  of  their 

350 


The  Intelligence  of  the  Flowers 

mistakes  is  one  alone,  whereas  those  of  ours 
are  countless. 

Since  we  live  in  a  cave  of  this  sort,  is  it 
not  interesting  to  prove  that  the  power 
which  has  placed  us  there  acts  often  and  on 
some  important  points  even  as  we  act  our- 
selves? Here  we  have  a  glimpse  of  light 
in  our  subterranean  cave  to  show  us  that 
we  have  not  been  mistaken  as  to  the  use  of 
every  object  to  be  found  therein. 

XXIX 

We  have  long  taken  a  rather  foolish  pride 
in  thinking  ourselves  miraculous,  unparall- 
eled and  marvellously  incidental  beings, 
probably  fallen  from  another  world,  devoid 
of  any  certain  ties  with  the  rest  of  life  and, 
in  any  case,  endowed  with  an  unusual,  in- 
comparable, monstrous  faculty.  It  is  greatly 
preferable  to  be  less  prodigious,  for  we 
have  learnt  that  prodigies  do  not  take  long 

35i 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

to  disappear  in  the  normal  evolution  of 
nature.  It  is  much  more  consoling  to  ob- 
serve that  we  follow  the  same  road  as  the 
soul  of  this  great  world,  that  we  have  the 
same  ideas,  the  same  hopes,  the  same  trials 
and — were  it  not  for  our  specific  dream 
of  justice  and  pity — the  same  feelings.  It 
is  much  more  tranquilising  to  assure  our- 
selves that,  to  better  our  lot,  to  utilise  the 
forces,  the  occasions,  the  laws  of  matter, 
we  employ  methods  exactly  similar  to  those 
which  it  uses  to  conquer,  enlighten  and 
order  its  unsubjected,  unconscious  and 
unruly  regions,  that  there  are  no  other 
methods,  that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  truth 
and  that  we  are  in  our  right  place  and  at 
home  in  this  universe  formed  of  unknown 
substances,  whose  thought,  however,  is  not 
impenetrable  and  hostile,  but  analogous 
and  apposite  to  our  own. 

If  nature  knew  everything,   if  she  were 
never  mistaken,  if,  everywhere,  in  all  her 

352 


The  Intelligence  of  the   Flowers 

undertakings,  she  showed  herself,  at  the 
first  onset,  perfect,  impeccable,  infallible, 
if  she  revealed  in  all  things  an  intelligence 
immeasurably  superior  to  our  own,  then 
there  would  be  cause  to  fear  and  to  lose 
courage.  We  should  feel  ourselves  the  vic- 
tims and  the  prey  of  an  extraneous  power, 
which  we  should  have  no  hope  of  knowing 
or  measuring.  It  is  much  better  to  be  con- 
vinced that  this  power,  at  least  from  the 
intellectual  point  of  view,  is  closely  akin  to 
our  own.  Our  intelligence  draws  upon  the 
same  reserve  as  does  that  of  nature.  We 
belong  to  the  same  world,  we  arc  almost 
equals.  We  are  associating  not  with  in- 
accessible gods,  but  with  veiled,  yet  fra- 
ternal volitions  which  it  is  our  business  to 
surprise  and  to  direct. 

XXX 

It  would  not,  I  imagine,  be  very  bold  to 
maintain  that  there  are  not  any  more  or  less 

353 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

intelligent  beings,  but  a  scattered,  general 
intelligence,  a  sort  of  universal  fluid  that 
penetrates  diversely  the  organisms  which  it 
encounters  according  as  they  are  good  or 
bad  conductors  of  the  understanding.  Man 
would  then  represent,  until  now,  upon  this 
earth,  the  mode  of  life  that  offered  the  least 
resistance  to  this  fluid,  which  the  religions 
called  divine.  Our  nerves  would  be  the 
threads  along  which  this  more  subtle  elec- 
tricity would  spread.  The  circumvolutions 
of  our  brain  would,  in  a  manner,  form  the 
induction-coil  in  which  the  force  of  the 
current  would  be  multiplied;  but  this  cur- 
rent would  be  of  no  other  nature,  would 
proceed  from  no  other  source  than  that 
which  passes  through  the  stone,  the  star, 
the  flower  or  the  animal. 

But  these  are  mysteries  which  it  were 
somewhat  idle  to  question,  seeing  that  we 
do  not  yet  possess  the  organ  that  could 
gather  their  reply.    Let  us  be  satisfied  with 

354 


The   Intelligence   of  the   Flowers 

having  observed  certain  manifestations  of 
this  intelligence  outside  ourselves.  All  that 
we  observe  within  ourselves  is  rightly  open 
to  suspicion :  we  are  at  once  judge  and 
suitor  and  we  have  too  great  an  interest  in 
peopling  our  world  with  magnificent  illu- 
sions and  hopes.  But  let  the  slightest  ex- 
ternal indication  be  dear  and  precious  to 
us.  Those  which  the  flowers  have  just 
offered  us  are  probably  quite  infinitesimal 
compared  with  what  the  mountains,  the  sea 
and  the  stars  would  tell  us,  could  we  sur- 
prise the  secrets  of  their  life.  Nevertheless, 
they  allow  us  to  presume  with  greater  confi- 
dence that  the  spirit  which  animates  all 
things  or  emanates  from  them  is  of  the 
same  essence  as  that  which  animates  our 
bodies.  If  this  spirit  resembles  us,  if  we 
thus  resemble  it,  if  all  that  it  contains  is 
contained  also  within  ourselves,  if  it  em- 
ploys our  methods,  if  it  has  our  habits,  our 
preoccupations,  our  tendencies,  our  desires 

355 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

for  better  things,  is  it  illogical  for  us  to 
hope  all  that  we  do  hope,  instinctively,  in- 
vincibly, seeing  that  it  is  almost  certain  that 
it  hopes  the  same?  Is  it  probable,  when  we 
find  scattered  through  life  so  great  a  sum 
total  of  intelligence,  that  this  life  should 
make  no  work  of  intelligence,  that  is  to  say, 
should  not  pursue  an  aim  of  happiness,  of 
perfection,  of  victory  over  that  which  we 
call  evil,  death,  darkness,  annihilation,  but 
which  is  probably  only  the  shadow  of  its 
face  or  its  own  sleep  ? 


356 


PERFUMES 


PERFUMES 


AFTER  speaking  at  some  length  of  the 
intelligence  of  the  flowers,  it  will  seem 
natural  that  we  should  say  a  word  of  their 
soul,  which  is  their  perfume.  Unfortu- 
nately, here,  as  in  the  case  of  the  soul  of 
man,  a  perfume  of  another  sphere,  where 
reason  bathes,  we  have  at  once  to  do  with 
the  unknowable.  We  are  almost  entirely 
unacquainted  with  the  purpose  of  that  zone 
of  festive  and  invisibly  magnificent  airwhich 
the  corollas  shed  around  themselves.  There 
is,  in  fact,  a  great  doubt  whether  it  serves 
chiefly  to  attract  the  insects.  In  the  first 
place,  many  among  the  most  sweet-scented 
of  the  flowers  do  not  admit  of  cross-fertil- 
isation, so  that  the  visit  of  the  butterfly  or 

359 


The  Measure  of  the   Hours 

the  bee  is  to  them  a  matter  of  indifference 
or  inconvenience.  Next,  that  which  at- 
tracts the  insects  is  solely  the  pollen  and  the 
nectar,  which,  generally,  have  no  percep- 
tible odour.  And  thus  we  see  them  neglect 
the  most  deliciously  perfumed  flowers,  such 
as  the  rose  and  the  carnation,  to  besiege  in 
crowds  the  flowers  of  the  maple  or  the 
hazel-tree,  whose  aroma  is,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  null. 

Let  us,  then,  confess  that  we  do  not  yet 
know  in  what  respect  perfumes  are  useful  to 
the  flower,  even  as  we  cannot  tell  why  we 
ourselves  perceive  them.  Indeed,  of  all  our 
senses,  that  of  smell  is  the  most  unexplained. 
It  is  evident  that  sight,  hearing,  touch  and 
taste  are  indispensable  to  our  animal  exist- 
ence. A  long  education  alone  teaches  us 
the  disinterested  enjoyment  of  forms,  col- 
ours and  sounds.  For  that  matter,  our 
sense  of  smell  also  exercises  important 
servile  functions.     It  is  the  keeper  of  the 

360 


Perfumes 

air  we  breathe,  the  hygienist  or  chemist  that 
watches  carefully  over  the  quality  of  the 
food  offered  for  our  consumption,  any  dis- 
agreeable emanation  revealing  the  presence 
of  suspicious  or  dangerous  germs.  But  be- 
sides this  practical  mission  it  has  an- 
other which  corresponds  with  nothing  at 
all.  Perfumes  are  utterly  useless  to  the 
needs  of  our  physical  life.  When  too  vio- 
lent or  too  lasting,  they  may  even  become 
detrimental  to  it.  Nevertheless,  we  possess 
a  faculty  that  revels  in  them  and  brings  us 
the  joyful  tidings  of  them  with  as  much  en- 
thusiasm and  conviction  as  though  it  con- 
cerned the  discovery  of  a  delicious  fruit  or 
drink.  This  uselessness  deserves  our  con- 
sideration. It  must  hide  some  fair  secret. 
We  have  here  the  only  occurrence  in  which 
nature  procures  us  a  gratuitous  pleasure,  a 
satisfaction  that  does  not  serve  to  adorn  one 
of  necessity's  snares.  Our  scent  is  the  only 
purely  luxurious  sense  that  she  has  granted 

361 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

us.  Wherefore  it  seems  almost  foreign  to 
our  bodies,  appears  to  be  not  very  closely 
connected  with  our  organism.  Is  it  an  ap- 
paratus that  is  developing,  or  one  that  is 
wasting  away;  a  somnolent,  or  an  awaken- 
ing faculty  ?  Everything  leads  us  to  think 
that  it  is  being  evolved  on  even  lines  with' 
our  civilisation.  The  ancients  interested 
themselves  almost  exclusively  in  the  more 
brutal,  the  heavier,  the  more  solid  scents,  so 
to  speak:  musk,  benzoin,  incense;  and  the 
fragrance  of  the  flowers  is  very  seldom 
mentioned  in  Greek  and  Latin  poetry  or  in 
Hebrew  literature.  To-day,  do  we  ever  see 
our  peasants,  even  at  their  longest  periods 
of  leisure,  dream  of  smelling  a  violet  or  a 
rose?  And  is  not  this,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  very  first  act  of  an  inhabitant  of  our 
great  cities  who  perceives  a  flower?  There 
is,  therefore,  some  ground  for  admitting 
that  the  sense  of  smell  is  the  last-born  of 
our  senses,  the  only  one,  perhaps,  that  is 

362 


Perfumes 

not  "in  course  of  retrogression,"  to  use  the 
ponderous  phrase  of  the  biologists.  This 
is  a  reason  for  making  it  our  study,  ques- 
tioning it  and  cultivating  its  possibilities. 
Who  shall  tell  the  surprises  which  it  would 
have  in  store  for  us  if  it  equalled,  for 
instance,  the  perfection  of  our  sight,  as  it 
does  in  the  case  of  the  dog,  which  lives  as 
much  by  the  nose  as  by  the  eyes? 

We  have  here  an  unexplored  world. 
This  mysterious  sense,  which,  at  first  sight, 
appears  almost  foreign  to  our  organism, 
becomes,  perhaps,  when  more  carefully 
considered,  that  which  enters  into  it  most 
intimately.  Are  we  not,  above  all  things, 
beings  of  the  air?  Is  the  air  not  for  us  the 
most  absolutely  and  promptly  indispensable 
element;  and  is  not  our  smell  just  the  one 
sense  that  perceives  some  parts  of  it?  Per- 
fumes, which  are  the  jewels  of  that  life- 
giving  air,  do  not  adorn  it  without  good 
cause.     It  were  not  surprising  if  this  luxury 

363 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

which  we  do  not  understand  corresponded 
with  something  very  profound  and  very 
essential  and  rather,  as  we  have  seen,  with 
something  that  is  not  yet  than  with  some- 
thing that  has  ceased  to  be.  It  is  very 
possible  that  this  sense,  the  only  one  that  is 
turned  towards  the  future,  is  already 
discerning  the  most  striking  manifestations 
of  a  form  or  of  a  happy  and  salutary  state 
of  matter  that  is  reserving  many  surprises 
for  us. 

Meanwhile,  it  has  not  yet  reached  beyond 
the  stage  of  the  more  violent,  the  less  subtle 
perceptions.  Hardly  does  it  so  much  as 
suspect,  with  the  aid  of  the  imagination, 
the  profound  and  harmonious  effluvia  that 
evidently  envelop  the  great  spectacles  of  the 
atmosphere  and  the  light.  As  we  are  on 
the  point  of  distinguishing  those  of  the  rain 
and  the  twilight,  why  should  we  not  one  day 
succeed  in  recognising  and  fixing  the  scent 
of  snow,  of  ice,  of  morning  dew,  of  the  first 

364 


Perfumes 

fruits  of  the  dawn,  of  the  twinkling  of  the 
stars ;  for  everything  must  have  its  perfume, 
inconceivable,  as  yet,  in  space:  even  a 
moonbeam,  a  ripple  of  water,  a  hovering 
cloud,  an  azure  smile  of  the  sky.  .   .    . 

II 

Chance  or  rather  the  choice  of  life  has 
brought  me  back  lately  to  the  spot  where 
almost  all  the  perfumes  of  Europe  are  born 
and  elaborated.  It  is,  in  point  of  fact,  as 
every  one  knows,  in  the  sun-swept  and 
balmy  region  stretching  from  Cannes  to 
Nice  that  the  last  hills  and  the  last  valleys 
of  living  and  true  flowers  maintain  an 
heroic  struggle  against  the  coarse  chemical 
odours  of  Germany,  which  stand  in  exactly 
the  same  relation  to  nature's  perfumes  as 
do  the  painted  woods  and  plains  of  a  theatre 
to  the  woods  and  plains  of  the  real  country. 
Here  the  labourer's  work   is   ruled  by  a 

365 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

sort  of  purely  floral  calendar,  in  which,  in 
May  and  July,  two  adorable  queens  hold 
sway:  the  rose  and  the  jasmine.  Around 
these  two  sovereigns  of  the  year,  one  the 
colour  of  the  dawn,  the  other  clad  in  white 
stars,  defile  in  procession,  from  January  to 
December,  the  violets,  innumerous  and 
prompt,  the  artless,  marvel-eyed  narcissuses, 
the  clustering  mimosas,  the  mignonette,  the 
pink  laden  with  precious  spices,  the  im- 
perious geranium,  the  tyrannically  virginal 
orange-flower,  the  lavender,  the  Spanish 
broom,  the  too-potent  tuberose  and  the 
acacia  that  resembles  an  orange  caterpillar. 
It  is,  at  first,  not  a  little  disconcerting  to 
see  the  great  dull  and  heavy  rustics,  whom 
harsh  necessity  turns  every  elsewhere  from 
the  smiles  of  life,  taking  flowers  so  seri- 
ously, handling  carefully  those  fragile  orna- 
ments of  the  earth,  performing  a  task  fit 
for  a  princess  or  a  bee  and  bending  under 
a  weight  of  violets  or  jonquils.     But  the 

366 


Perfumes 

most  striking  impression  is  that  of  certain 
evenings  or  mornings  in  the  season  of  the 
roses  or  the  jasmine.  It  is  as  though  the 
atmosphere  of  the  earth  had  suddenly 
changed,  as  though  it  had  made  way  for 
that  of  an  infinitely  happy  planet,  where 
perfumes  are  not,  as  here,  fleeting,  Vague 
and  precarious,  but  stable,  spacious,  full, 
permanent,  generous,  normal  and  inalien- 
able. 

Ill 

Many  writers,  speaking  of  Grasse,  have 
drawn  the  picture  of  that  almost  fairy-like 
industry  which  occupies  the  whole  of  a 
hard-working  town,  perched,  like  a  sunlit 
hive,  upon  a  mountain-side.  They  have 
told  of  the  magnificent  cartloads  of  roses 
shot  upon  the  threshold  of  tlfe  smoking  fac- 
tories, the  great  halls  in  which  the  sorters 
literally  wade  through  the  flood  of  petals, 
the    less   cumbersome,    but   more   precious 

367 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

arrival  of  the  violets,  tuberoses,  acacias,  jas- 
mine, in  wide  baskets  which  the  peasant- 
women  carry  nobly  on  their  heads.  Lastly, 
they  have  described  the  different  processes 
whereby  the  flowers,  each  according  to  its 
character,  are  forced  to  yield  to  the  crystal 
the  marvellous  secrets  of  their  hearts.  We 
know  that  some  of  them,  the  roses,  for  in- 
stance, are  accommodating  and  willing  and 
give  up  their  aroma  with  simplicity.  They 
are  heaped  into  huge  boilers,  tall  as  those 
of  our  locomotive  engines,  through  which 
steam  is  made  to  pass.  Little  by  little,  their 
essential  oil,  more  costly  than  a  jelly  of 
pearls,  oozes  drop  by  drop  into  a  glass  tube, 
no  wider  than  a  goose-quill  at  the  bottom 
of  the  monstrous  still,  which  resembles 
some  mountain  painfully  giving  birth  to  a 
tear  of  amber. 

But  the  greater  part  of  the  flowers  do  not 
so  easily  allow  their  souls  to  be  imprisoned. 
l  will  not,  in  the  wake  of  so  many  others, 

368 


Perfumes 

speak  here  of  the  infinitely  varied  tortures 
inflicted  upon  them  to  force  them  at  length 
to  surrender  the  treasure  which  they  despe- 
rately hide  in  the  depth  of  their  corollas. 
I  will  not  enumerate  the  different  processes 
of  chemical  extraction  by  means  of  petrol 
ether,  sulphide  of  carbon  and  the  rest.  The 
great  perfumers  of  Grasse,  ever  faithful 
to  tradition,  scorn  these  artificial  and  almost 
unfair  methods,  which  wound  the  soul  of 
the  flower.  It  will  suffice  to  give  an  idea 
of  the  executioner's  cunning  and  the  ob- 
stinacy of  some  of  the  victims,  to  recall  the 
pangs  of  the  enfleurage  which  certain  flow- 
ers are  made  to  endure  before  they  break 
silence.  The  cold  enfleurage  is  practised 
only  upon  the  jonquil,  the  mignonette,  the 
tuberose  and  the  jasmine;1  and  I  may  men- 

1  The  violets  resist  the  reduction  of  cold  fat  and  the 
torture  of  fire  has  to  be  superadded.  The  lard,  there- 
fore, is  heated  in  the  water-bath  until  it  approaches 
boiling-point.  In  consequence  of  this  barbarous  treat- 
ment, which  recalls   that  inflicted   upon  the  coiners  of 

369 


The  Measure  of  the  Hours 

tion,  in  passing,  that  the  scent  of  the  jas- 
mine is  the  only  one  that  is  inimitable,  the 
only  one  that  cannot  be  obtained  by  a 
cunning  mixture  of  other  odours.  The 
torturer  coats  large  plates  of-  glass  with 
a  white  fat  of  the  thickness  of  two  fingers 
and  spreads  on  this  bed  of  humiliating  pain 
the  flowers  to  be  questioned.  As  the  re- 
sult of  what  hypocritical  manoeuvres,  of 
what  unctuous  promises  does  the  fat  obtain 
their  irrevocable  confidences?  None  can 
tell ;  but  the  fact  remains  that  soon  the  too- 
trusting  flowers  have  nothing  more  to  lose. 
Forthwith,  they  are  removed  and  flung 
away  as  rubbish;  and,  each  morning,  a  new 
ingenuous  heap  takes  their  place  on  the  in- 
sidious couch.     These  yield  in  their  turn 

the  middle  ages,  the  modest  and  fragrant  flowers  that 
deck  the  roads  in  spring  gradually  lose  the  strength 
to  keep  their  secret.  They  yield,  they  surrender,  and 
their  liquid  executioner  is  not  satiated  until  it  has 
absorbed  four  times  its  own  weight  in  petals,  which 
causes  the  torture  to  be  prolonged  throughout  the 
season  in  which  the  violets  blossom  under  the  olive-trees. 

370 


Perfumes 

and  undergo  the  same  fate;  others  and  yet 
others  follow  them;  and  it  is  not  until  the 
end  of  three  months,  that  is  after  devouring 
ninety  successive  layers  of  flowers,  that  the 
unctuous  ogre  is  completely  surfeited  and 
refuses  to  absorb  the  life  and  soul  of  any 
further  victims.  It  now  becomes  a  matter 
of  making  the  wan  miser  disgorge;  for  the 
energy,  to  retain  the  absorbed  treasure. 
This  is  achieved,  not  without  difficulty. 
The  fat  has  base  passions  which  are  its  un- 
doing. It  is  plied  with  alcohol,  is  intoxi- 
cated and  ends  by  quitting  its  hold.  The 
alcohol  now  possesses  the  mystery.  No 
sooner  has  it  the  secrets  in  its  custody  than 
it  too  claims  the  right  to  impart  them  to 
none  other,  to  keep  them  for  itself  alone.  It 
is  attacked  in  its  turn,  tortured,  evaporated, 
condensed;  and,  after  all  these  adventures, 
the  liquid  pearl,  pure,  essential,  inexhaust- 
ible and  almost  imperishable,  is  at  last  gath- 
ered on  a  crystal  blade. 

371 


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Date 


Hour 


Name 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  291  209    5 


